1  AND  LETTE 


.EL 


\ 


ADVENTURES  IN  LIFE 
AND  LETTERS 


ADVENTURES 
IN 

LIFE  AND  LETTERS 

BY 

MICHAEL  MONAHAN 


New  York  &  London 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

1912 


Copyright  1911  by 
Mitchell  Kennerley 


To 

ROBERT  MITCHELL  FLOYD 

and 
ISOBEL   HENDERSON  FLOYD 


With  Oeil  de  Perdrix, 
Dear  Colonel,  and  thee, 

Pd  tarry  for  aye  and  a  day; 
While  the  red  bubbles  up 
In  the  crystalline  cup, 

And  we  like  two  kings  in  a  play. 
There's  that  other  poor  wight  ^ 
All  in  motley  bedight, 

Who  has  kept  me  so  long  company ', — 
Ah,  the  years  are  two  score  ! 
But  F II  know  him  no  more, 

When  merry  with  Oeil  de  Perdrix. 

With  Oeil  de  Perdrix, 
Dear  Colonel,  and  thee, 

I'd  not  deem  an  age  over-long; 
Let  the  fools  have  their  thinking, 
While  we  sit  here  drinking 

And  losing  the  world  for  a  song. 
Hark!  that  wail  rising  nigh — 
9Tis  the  hounds  in  full  cry 

That  Care  on  her  minion  lets  free: 
They  shall  track  me  in  vain 
While  this  goblet  I  drain 

And  7nock  them  in  Oeil  de  Perdrix. 


With  Oeil  de  Perdrix, 
Dear  Colonel,  and  thee, 

No  weariness  e'er  should  I  feel. 
The  lights  should  burn  on 
Till  the  heralds  of  dawn 

On  our  merriment  slyly  would  steal. 
Our  joy  should  not  fail, 
Nor  our  laughter  grow  stale, 

Nor  the  jest  and  the  smile  less  agree, 
While  glorious  we'd  sit, 
Mixing  wine  with  our  wit, 

In  bumpers  of  Oeil  de  Perdrix. 

With  Oeil  de  Perdrix, 
Dear  Colonel,  and  thee, 

I  gather  the  laurels  once  lost, 
And  the  prizes  of  fame 
Seem  too  easy  to  claim, 

Though  the  world  deem  so  bitter  the  cost. 
I  incline  like  a  god, 
Bidding  all  with  a  nod, 

Love,  Glory  and  Wealth,  those  bright  Three: 
Ah,  let  me  dream  on — 
/  shall  waken  anon 

To  a  morn  without  Oeil  de  Perdrix! 

—M.M. 
New  York,  November,  1911 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  LOST  POET  7 

THE  TIME  OF  Louis  THE  GRAND  14 

THE  MAN  IN  THE  IRON  MASK  17 

MEMORIES  39 

CLAUDE  TILLIER  48 

GEORGE  MOORE,  LOVER  58 

BROTHER  ELIAS  68 

GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT  77 

KNIGHTS  OF  THE  ROAD  87 

MARY  98 

LOST  105 

OLD  BOOK  MEN  in 

THE  UNKNOWN  MASTERPIECE  117 
THE  BELOVED  (With  apologies  to  Koheleth)    123 

PECCAVI  128 

DEATH  AND  THE  DOCTOR  133 

THE  WOMAN  142 

COMTE  AND  CLOTILDE  153 

BILL  158 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA  162 

EXIT  BILL  169 

THE  OTHER  FACE  174 

LILITH  182 

To  A  LITERARY  CHARACTER  187 

3 


4  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

POTPOURRI  189 

DICKENS:  A  REVERIE  211 

A  LITTLE  DINNER  WITH  EGERIA  225 

To  THE  SHADE  OF  LAMB  233 

SLEEP  239 

FORTY  YEAR  245 

THE  LOST  GOD:  A  FABLE  OF  TO-DAY  254 

A  NOTE  ON  OSCAR  WILDE  260 

MY  RELIGION  268 

THE  DEVIL  274 

VOLTAIRE  282 

A  MATHEMATICAL  MYSTIC  289 

BEING  HAPPY  THOUGH  RICH  294 

THE  PEOPLE  301 

CELLINI  304 

THE  SABINE  FARM  316 

AT  POE'S  COTTAGE  319 

LITERARY  AMENITIES  327 

CONSULE  PLANCO  336 

HENRIETTE  RENAN  338 

BALLADE  OF  POOR  SOULS  352 

IN  THE  SHADOW  354 

EASTER  359 

THE  TALISMAN  363 

AN  OLD  BOY  3^8 


ADVENTURES  IN  LIFE 
AND  LETTERS 


LITTLE  Book,  I  mean  you  to  be  my  refuge 
from  the  carking  world;  my  sanctuary  of 
the  Inner  mind;   my   magic  tent   oy   night, 
wherein  the  soul  shall  whisper  messages  forbidden 
to  the  common  day;  an  isle  of  rest  in  my  hard  pil 
grimage   that   mayhap  shall  keep  green  and  fair 
some  little  space  when  the  hands  that  tended  it  are 
dust. 


ADVENTURES   IN   LIFE 
AND   LETTERS 


A  LOST  POET 

TO  almost  every  man  blessed  or  cursed  with 
the  instinct  of  self-expression — blessed  in 
so  far  as  the  instinct  is  gratified,  cursed  in  so 
far  as  it  is  balked  and  frustrated — there  comes  a 
time,  the  heyday  of  youth  being  past,  when  the 
vanity  of  his  hope  presses  upon  him  with  a  cruel 
insistence.  Even  the  successful  artist  is  not  exempt 
from  this  trial — we  know  how  it  embittered  the 
last  days  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  in  spite  of 
every  testimony  of  esteem,  every  suffrage  of  recog 
nition  that  an  applauding  world  could  shower  upon 
him.  How  grievous,  then,  must  it  be  in  the  case  of 
a  man  who  has  but  merely  demonstrated  the  artistic 
temperament  by  such  slight  works  as  are  commonly 
accepted  only  as  an  earnest  of  riper  and  better  per 
formance!  It  is  then  that  such  a  man,  having 
neither  secured  nor  deserved  from  the  world  that 
sustaining  grace  of  public  approval  which  is  called 
success,  begins  to  see  with  fatal  clearness  the  via 

7 


8  ADVENTURES   IN 

olorosa  of  the  artistic  spirit  stretching  away  be 
fore  his  lamentable  vision,  and  ever  dropping  lower 
unto  the  sad  twilight  of  age.  Oh,  the  bitterness  of 
that  first  foretaste  of  inevitable  defeat !  No  sen 
tence  of  the  world,  however  severe,  could  affect  his 
courage  like  this,  for,  alas !  this  comes  from  within 
— the  man  is  judged  by  that  inner  self  from  whose 
decrees  there  is  no  appeal.  Not  so  had  he  promised 
himself  in  his  first  sanguine  elation  at  hearing  the 
poet's  voice  within  his  breast;  nor  can  he  endure 
to  look  forward  to  an  old  age  lacking  what  must 
be  for  him  its  chief  honor  and  garland: 

Latoe,  dones  et — precor — Integra 

Cum  mente  nee  turpem  senectam 

Degere  nee  cithara  carentem! 

Alas!  what  hope  is  there  for  him  of  an  old  age 
rejoiced  with  the  lyre,  since  now,  ere  youth  be  yet 
entirely  past,  he  is  tasting  that  death  of  the  spirit 
which  foretokens  decay  and  eternal  silence?  This, 
in  truth,  is  the  supreme  agony  of  such  a  mind — 
worse,  far  worse,  than  a  hundred  deaths  of  the 
body:  yea,  worse  than  the  "second  death"  of  Chris 
tian  reprobation.  To  pass  away  in  the  course  of 
nature  were  nothing;  a  thousand  generations  preach 
the  trite  moral  of  flesh  that  is  reaped  like  grass — 
any  fool's  grinning  skull  will  make  a  jest  of  this 
brief-lived  humanity.  But  to  feel  now,  when  it  is 
too  late,  that  he  had  a  voice  and  did  not  speak; 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  9 

that  he  forfeited  the  most  precious  of  all  birth 
rights;  that  he  was  a  poet — yes,  by  God! — and  yet 
failed  to  make  good  his  divine  title,  and  must  now 
remain  forever  silent,  losing  his  place  in  the  immor 
tal  company  of  those  who  cannot  die  from  out  the 
grateful  memory  of  men — oh,  what  a  thought  is 
this  for  a  man  to  bear  with  him  to  his  grave! 

But  the  world,  incredulous  of  such  a  soul,  is  ready 
to  cry  out  upon  the  recreant:  Why,  if  he  had  a 
true  voice,  did  he  not  speak — nay,  how  could  he  help 
speaking?  Who  was  there  to  bid  him  be  silent? 
Of  marvellous  worth,  truly,  was  this  poem  of  his, 
always  seeking  form  and  melody  in  his  brain,  which 
could  never  get  itself  written — this  message  always 
rising  to  his  lips,  which  could  never  get  itself  spoken ! 

Let  all  the  accidents  of  time  and  fate  plead  for 
him.  Think  you  that  none  was  deemed  worthy  in 
the  Olympic  strife  save  him  who  barely  snatched 
the  victor's  wreath? 

What  of  the  many  agonists,  nameless  now  for 
ever,  who  lost  the  prize,  yet  made  the  victor  earn 
his  triumph  dear?  Only  less  than  his  was  their 
skill,  their  strength,  their  endurance — nay,  it  may 
well  be  that  in  all  things  they  stood  equal  to  him, 
but  the  strumpet  Fortune  turned  the  scale.  Even 
as  he,  had  they  prepared  for  the  stern  trial,  with 
labor  and  sweat  and  vigil;  and  victors  they  stood 
in  their  own  high  hope  until  the  last  decisive  mo 
ment.  Hail  to  the  vanquished! 


io  ADVENTURES    IN 

Deeper,  less  remediable  grief  than  was  theirs 
who  lost  the  olive  crown,  is  the  portion  of  the  dis 
franchised  poet.  And  though  most  ills  of  body  and 
soul  now  freely  render  themselves  to  the  scalpel 
of  the  surgeon  or  the  probe  of  the  psychologist, 
not  easily  shall  you  approach  this  wounded  spirit, 
stricken  of  the  gods  themselves  for  the  sin  of  rec 
reancy  to  their  high  gift. 

Yet  have  I  known  such  a  poet,  by  a  strange  priv 
ilege;  and  without  the  least  treason,  I  am  permitted 
to  write  his  fateful  story  here.  In  doing  so  I  be 
tray  no  living  confidence,  for  the  man,  though  he 
still  breathes  the  vital  air,  is  as  no  longer  of  this 
earth,  having  lost  that  which  was  the  true  essence 
and  motive  of  his  being.  Reluctantly  enough  I  ven 
ture  to  look  into  the  soul  of  this  unfortunate. 

The  god  in  his  bosom  is  dead.  The  burning 
hopes  of  his  ardent  youth,  when  the  night  was  all 
too  short  for  its  dreams  of  glory,  have  fallen  back 
upon  his  heart  in  cold  and  bitter  ashes.  Alas,  how 
have  the  years  cheated  him !  Always  he  was  putting 
off  the  clamant  voice  within  his  breast  until  he  should 
have  gathered  more  knowledge  of  his  art — should 
have  become  wiser,  stronger,  purer.  Life  detained 
him  from  his  appointed  task  with  its  manifold  sur 
prises.  "Wait!"  it  said:  "thou  dost  not  yet  know 
me  well  enough  to  write  of  me.  Abide  still  a  little 
longer,  and  no  poet  will  have  learned  so  much." 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  11 

Then  was  he  taken  in  the  sweet  coil  of  young  pas 
sion,  and  his  nights  were  turned  to  ecstasy,  his  days 
to  waking  dreams;  so  that  the  beauty  of  a  woman's 
white  body  seemed  to  him  the  only  poem  betwixt 
the  heaven  and  the  earth.  And  this  happened  in 
the  first  City  of  Desire. 

Long  was  he  held  by  this  strong  coil,  but  at  last, 
shamed  by  the  accusation  of  his  pure  early  dream, 
he  broke  the  guilty  fetter  and  was  again  free.  But 
not  yet  to  write;  not  yet.  For  he  said,  "Alas!  I 
have  done  hurt  to  my  soul,  and  until  her  peace  shall 
be  restored,  I  am  unworthy  the  sacred  name  of 
poet." 

Then,  after  a  long  season  of  self-torment,  resist 
ing  bravely  the  phantoms  of  his  late  evil  experi 
ence  in  the  first  City  of  Desire,  yet  knowing  him 
self  the  weaker  for  every  victory,  he  at  length  set 
himself  to  write.  But  not  yet  was  it  to  be,  for  a 
better  Love  came  and  took  the  pen  from  his  hand, 
saying:  "Thou  hast  learned  all  too  dearly  what 
is  evil  in  love.  Now  shalt  thou  learn  what  is  good; 
and  then  indeed  mayst  thou  prove  thyself  a  poet." 

So  he  married  this  better  Love,  even  in  the  way 
of  men,  though  not,  if  he  had  wiser  known,  in  the 
way  of  poets.  And  much  joy,  for  a  season,  was 
his,  and  the  ghosts  of  bad  delights  fell  away  and 
ceased  to  reproach  or  entice  him.  But  ere  long, 
when  he  sought  to  take  up  the  pen,  he  found  that 
this  better  Love  was  implacably  jealous  of  the  poet 


12  ADVENTURES    IN 

in  his  breast.  "Look  at  me !"  she  cried.  "Am  I  not 
more  desirable  than  the  fiction  of  thy  brain?  Is  it 
for  this  I  am  beautiful — nay,  is  it  for  this  I  gave  my 
self  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  leave  me  for  thy 
thoughts,  or  that  even  when  present,  thou  shouldst 
not  see  me  for  the  working  of  thy  fancy?'* 

And  then  would  she  weep  till  the  poor,  distracted 
poet  would  take  her  to  his  heart,  learning  how 
much  easier  it  is  to  comfort  a  loving  woman  than 
to  write  an  immortal  poem. 

Thus,  again,  the  pen  was  laid  aside,  and  the  un 
happy  poet  was,  perforce,  content  to  read  the  poems 
of  other  poets  to  his  wife — which  she  graciously 
permitted — instead  of  writing  any  of  his  own.  And 
the  neighbors  called  him  a  model  husband,  for  a 
literary  man;  all  the  time  wondering  when  he  would 
produce  his  great  work. 

So  the  years  passed,  each  in  its  flight  vainly  chal 
lenging  him;  and  children  came,  adding  to  his  bur 
den  of  care,  and  forcing  him  to  double-lock  the 
door  of  that  secret  chamber  of  his  soul  where  he 
still  kept  his  white  dream  of  poesy.  At  long  inter 
vals,  however,  he  went  in  there  stealthily,  drawing 
the  bolts  with  fearful  precaution,  lest  the  wife  of 
liis  bosom  should  hear  him;  and  often  he  came 
from  thence  weeping. 

But  at  length  the  ardor  of  his  wife's  love  for  him 
was  appeased,  or  it  was  divided  between  him  and 
their  children;  so  that  one  day  she  cried  to  him  in 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  13 

shrill  reproach:  "Did  I  not  marry  a  poet  long  ago, 
and  why  hast  thou  made  nothing  of  thy  gifts?  Can 
not  a  man  be  a  poet  and  yet  love  his  wife?  Cannot 
he  get  works  of  his  mind  as  well  as  lawful  children 
of  his  body?" 

To  which  the  lost  poet,  whom  she  had  so  well 
trained,  made  no  answer,  only  looking  at  her  with 
lamentable  eyes. 

Then  she  bustled  about  and  found  the  pen  so  long 
laid  aside,  and  put  it  in  his  hand,  saying:  uCome, 
thou  art  not  so  young  as  thou  wast  when  I  married 
and  reclaimed  thee  from  evil;  but  there  is  yet  time. 
Write!" 

The  poor  poet  was  stricken  with  wonder  and  even 
doubted  if  he  heard  aright,  so  that  a  moment  he 
stood  gazing  at  her  in  pitiful  uncertainty.  Then 
he  saw  that  this  woman  to  whom  he  had  yielded  up 
the  glory  of  his  youth  and  the  hope  of  his  genius, 
was  in  earnest.  And  he  said: 

"What  now  shall  I  write,  an  it  please  thee? — 
mine  own  epitaph!  .  .  ." 


14  ADVENTURES    IN 


THE  TIME  OF  LOUIS  THE  GRAND 

FOR  the  time  of  Louis  the  Grand, 

The  rare  old  time,  the  fne  old  time, 
When    the    world    danced    to    the    King's 

command, 

The  Great  King,  the  Sublime! 
When  La  Montespan  or  La  Maintenon 

Held  her  place  in  the  royal  heart, 
And  the  poet  might  sing,  if  his  venal  song 
Had  the  trick  of  the  courtier's  art. 

O  the  lips  that  lied  with  a  perfect  grace, 

And  the  eyes'  unfathomed  smile, 
The  masque  of  powder  and  scent  and  lace, 

With  its  gay  and  gracious  guile. 
What  if  Honor  lived  as  a  strumpet  thing, 

Yea,  mocked  for  her  flaunting  shame, — 
Was  she  not  the  favored  of  court  and  King? — 

And  the  King  could  bear  no  blame! 

O  the  perjured  oaths,  the  broken  lives, 

And  the  land's  unheeded  cry, 
The  pimp  or  quean  that  in  favor  thrives, 

While  the  sinless  serf  must  die: 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  15 

The  wars  that  draw  out  the  nation's  blood, 

Too  oft  for  a  trivial  thing — 
My  faith!  such  talk  were  not  understood 

When  Louis  the  Grand  was  King. 

O  the  pomp  and  pride  of  the  highborn  priest, 

Yea,  the  stern,  un-Christlike  pride, 
That  sate  with  Dives  at  his  loaded  feast, 

Nor  the  blackest  robe  could  hide. 
And  the  barren  word  of  his  haughty  dole 

To  the  Shepherd's  chosen  poor, 
Who,  starved  in  body  and  mind  and  soul, 

Would  yet  their  ills  endure. 

O  those  wretched  poor! — how  they  bowed  the  head, 

And  clung  to  their  bitter  lot, 
Nor  ceased  to  pray,  tho  the  <tears  they  shed 

Were  of  God  and  man  forgot. 
And  fearful  the  wage  that  time  did  hold 

For  the  dread  atoning  day 
When  the  serf  should  mock  at  a  bribe  of  gold, 

And  the  master's  blood  must  pay! 


Yes,  I  like  to  think  of  the  rare  old  time 
When  Louis  the  Grand  was  King, 

And  here  am  I  moved  to  say  in  rhyme 
What  his  poets  might  not  sing. 


1 6  ADVENTURES    IN 

The  masque  of  powder  and  scent  and  lace, 
The  court  with  its  splendor  gay, 

The  sly  intrigues,  with  their  wicked  grace, 
And  the  King's  own  part  in  the  play: — 

0  merry  sport  'tis  to  make  them  live 
In  memory's  antic  page, 

Whilst  the  Prompter  waiteth  his  call  to  give, 

Ere  the  Furies  leap  the  stage! 
For  when  I  am  weary  and  sick  of  heart 

At  the  mimic  lying  scene, 

1  close  mine  eyes  till  the  Shades  depart — 
And  rises  the  Guillotine! 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS  17 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  IRON  MASK 

TRUTH  travels  like   the   tortoise.      Fiction 
wears  the  seven-league  boots  of  fable. 
This,  you  will  say,  was  true  a  hundred 
or  a  thousand  years  ago,  but  is  it  so  to-day  when  a 
newspaper  every  hour  is  the  symbol  of  civilization, 
when  we  have  the  telegraph,  the  ocean  cable,  and 
even  Wireless? 

Excellent  reader,  yes:  these  wonderful  devices 
for  transmitting  intelligence  have  not  changed  hu 
man  nature,  nor  brought  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
nearer  to  us,  nor  removed  the  disparity  betwixt  the 
ill-matched  pair  referred  to.  Nay,  are  they  not, 
after  all,  with  due  respect  to  science,  the  mere  mod 
ern  equivalent  of  the  ancient  Rumor  painted  full  of 
Tongues?  In  other  words,  these  ingenious  contriv 
ances  have  taken  from  Fiction  no  part  of  her  old 
advantage  and  from  Truth  no  part  of  her  old  handi 
cap.  Relatively,  then,  both  are  to-day  not  merely 
as  they  were  in  the  stage-coach  era,  but  as  they 
were  in  the  epoch  of  the  Ptolemies. 

The  reason  for  this  lies  deep  in  the  constitution 
of  the  human  mind.  Something  is  there  which 
inclines  us  to  the  love  of  Fiction  and  makes  us 
averse  to  her  more  virtuous  but  less  favored  sister. 


1 8  ADVENTURES    IN 

That  preference  persists  in  spite  of  all  our  boasted 
enlightenment;  in  spite,  too,  of  the  marvellous  in 
ventions  which  science  has  brought — as  the  phrase 
goes — to  the  aid  and  service  of  Truth.  She,  poor 
lady,  must  strive  as  hard  as  ever  to  win  from  us 
even  a  small  portion  of  that  smiling  favor  which  we 
instantly  and  in  plentitude  accord  to  her  charming 
rival.  And  like  many  another  of  her  sex,  the  more 
faithful  and  the  more  devoted  she,  and  the  more 
unwearied  in  her  efforts  to  please,  the  slower  are  we 
to  respond  and  the  greater  is  our  unkindness. 

Certainly  she  has  never  had  a  harder  task,  and 
few  longer  ones  (where  there  was  any  hope  at  all 
of  success)  than  that  of  trying  to  tell  us  the  truth 
about  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask.  At  length  and 
at  last  she  has  got  it  told,  but  how  long  do  you 
think  it  will  take  for  the  world  to  accept  the  truth  ? 
I  fancy  she  has  not  been  over-thanked  for  her  pains, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  at  all  that  the  world  still  pre 
fers  the  old  or  false  story  and  would  like  to  go 
on  preferring  it.  For  that  is  the  immemorial  way 
of  the  world,  as  none  knew  better  than  the  great 
writer  who  started  the  popular  legend  of  the  masked 
Prisoner  of  the  Bastille. 

Clio,  muse  of  history,  played  a  sly  trick  upon  her 
good  friend  Voltaire  when  she  nudged  him  to  set 
up  the  false  version  of  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask. 
I  mean,  of  course — as  there  have  been  many  false 
versions — that  which  has  obtained  the  widest  cur- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  19 

rency  and  possessed  the  popular  imagination  for 
over  two  hundred  years.  To  impute  no  malicious 
or  conscious  invention  to  Voltaire,  were  to  save  his 
character  at  the  expense  of  his  acumen.  That  the 
arch-demolisher  of  myth  and  legend  should  himself 
have  put  up  the  most  astounding  myth  of  his  age, 
which  has  thence  persisted  even  unto  our  own,  is 
surely  an  ironical  circumstance.  Candide  in  his  gar 
den  would  not  have  failed  to  point  it  with  a  pithy 
reflection  upon  the  uncertainty  of  all  human  evi 
dence.  It  need  not  indeed  discredit  Voltaire  that 
he  should  have  been  unable  to  learn  the  real  facts 
about  the  Secret  Prisoner  of  Louis  XIV — though 
the  scent  of  them  was  gotten  even  in  his  time — but 
why  did  he  invent  or  at  least  give  sanction  to  an 
elaborate  and  false  hypothesis?  That  is  a  question 
which  may  not  easily  be  answered  in  full  candor 
without  a  note  of  censure  upon  Voltaire.  It  must 
be  said,  however,  that  he  liked  the  tale  so  well  that 
in  the  end  he  came  himself  fully  to  believe  in  it. 
No  uncommon  delusion  that,  as  Candide  might  have 
told  him. 

Voltaire's  legend  of  the  Mask  being  the  univer 
sally  current  one  and  that  which  was  dramatized 
by  Dumas  in  his  Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  thereby 
gaining  a  fresh  lease  of  life  and  an  added  romantic 
glamour,  I  here  offer  a  condensed  version  of  the 
same. 


20  ADVENTURES    IN 

In  his  Anecdotes  of  the  Reign  of  Louis  XIV ,  Vol 
taire  relates  that  some  months  after  the  death  of 
Cardinal  Mazarin,  "an  unknown  prisoner  of  ma 
jestic  height,  young,  of  a  graceful  and  noble  figure, 
was  sent  with  the  utmost  secrecy  to  the  castle  on 
St.  Margaret's  Island  in  the  Sea  of  Provence." 
The  account  continues: 

"The  prisoner  on  the  road  wore  a  mask,  the  chin 
of  which  was  composed  of  steel  springs,  which  gave 
him  liberty  to  eat  with  his  mask  on.  Orders  were 
given  to  kill  him  if  he  discovered  himself.  He  re 
mained  on  the  island  till  an  officer  of  tried  fidelity 
named  Saint-Mars,  governor  of  Pignerol,  was  made 
governor  of  the  Bastille  in  1690.  He  went  to  the 
island  of  St.  Margaret  and  brought  him  to  the  Bas 
tille,  with  his  mask  on  all  the  way.  The  Marquis 
de  Louvois  went  to  see  him  on  that  island  before 
his  departure,  and  spoke  to  him  with  great  respect, 
without  sitting  down.  This  prisoner  was  brought 
to  the  Bastille  and  lodged  as  well  as  he  could  be 
in  that  castle.  He  was  refused  nothing  that  he  de 
sired.  His  greatest  pleasure  was  in  extraordinary 
fine  linen  and  laces.  He  played  on  the  guitar.  He 
was  much  caressed  and  the  governor  seldom  sat 
down  in  his  presence.  An  old  physician  of  the  Bas 
tille,  who  had  frequently  attended  this  strange  gen 
tleman  in  his  illness,  declared  that  he  never  saw 
his  face,  though  he  had  frequently  examined  his 
tongue,  etc.  ...  he  never  complained  of 
his  situation  and  never  disclosed  who  he  was.  This 
stranger  died  in  1704  and  was  buried  at  night  in 
the  parish  of  St.  Paul." 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  21 

After  some  further  particulars  tending  to  indicate 
that  the  mysterious  prisoner  was  of  high  rank, 
Voltaire  says : 

"M.  Chamillard  was  the  last  person  who  knew 
anything  of  this  strange  secret.  The  second  Mar 
shal  de  Feuillade,  his  son-in-law,  told  me  that  at 
the  death  of  his  father-in-law  he  conjured  him  on 
his  knees  to  tell  him  who  that  person  was  who 
was  never  known  but  by  the  name  of  the  Man  with 
the  Iron  Mask.  Chamillard  answered  that  it  was 
a  secret  of  state  and  that  he  had  taken  an  oath  never 
to  reveal  it." 

Voltaire  impressively  concludes: 

"In  fine,  there  are  many  of  my  contemporaries 
who  will  attest  the  truth  of  what  I  advance;  nor 
do  I  know  any  one  fact  so  extraordinary  and  so  well 
supported." 

Elsewhere  and  at  a  later  period  Voltaire  gave 
his  guess  as  to  the  identity  of  the  masked  Prisoner, 
naming  him  as  an  elder  brother  of  Louis  XIV, 
born  to  the  Queen-Mother  Anne  of  Austria  illegiti 
mately  in  wedlock,  the  fact  being  hidden  from  the 
French  Court,  with  the  connivance  of  Richelieu. 
Voltaire  did  not  venture  to  name  the  father  of  this 
royal  bastard — he  left  that  delicate  matter  open  to 
speculation.  Others  were  not  so  chary,  and  the 
paternity  of  the  Mask  was  commonly  imputed  to 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham  or  to  Cardinal  Mazarin. 
Poor  Anne  of  Austria's  reputation  was  not  con- 


22  ADVENTURES    IN 

sidered  in  the  least,  and  strange  it  is  to  reflect  that 
the  cruelty  of  Louis  caused  his  mother's  name  to 
be  soiled  by  the  tongue  of  scandal  for  so  many 
years. 

The  Mask  a  brother  of  the  Great  King!  This 
addition  to  the  legend,  with  its  purple  shame  and 
mystery  involving  Queen  and  Cardinal,  gave  it  the 
crowning  touch  of  interest  and  romance.  Whatever 
we  may  think  of  Voltaire  the  historian,  there  is  writ 
plain  in  this  bold  invention  the  hand  of  Voltaire 
the  Artist! 

The  fable  just  recited,  with  its  several  variants, 
is  easily  proved  to  be  as  baseless  in  fact,  as  ridicu 
lous  in  conception  as  any  that  the  great  skeptic  him 
self  ever  punctured  in  his  long  war  against  religious 
imposture.  But  he  seems  to  have  uttered  it  in  good 
faith,  and  in  his  latter  years  he  rejected  a  rumor 
of  the  truth  with  scorn,  saying:  "Why,  they  have 
now  given  him  an  Italian  name  1" 

An  Italian  indeed  he  was,  as  in  our  time  the 
work  of  one  or  two  patient  investigators  has  es 
tablished  beyond  question. 

Victim  he  was  of  his  own  double-dealing,  of  a 
Great  King's  wounded  pride  and  implacable  hatred. 

The  secret  despatches  of  Louis  XIV,  of  his  min 
isters  and  agents,  together  with  a  page  or  two  from 
the  register  of  the  Bastille,  have  revealed  the  whole 
story. 

Voltaire's  "iron  mask1'  that  was  never  removed, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  23 

not  even  for  the  physician  attending  the  Prisoner, 
was  a  pure  figment;  likewise  a  physical  impossibility, 
as  regards  the  Prisoner's  endurance.  Actually  the 
mask  was  a  simple  domino  of  black  velvet  covering 
the  upper  half  of  the  face,  such  as  was  commonly 
affected  at  the  Italian  carnivals.  There  is  no  proof 
that  the  Prisoner  was  obliged  to  wear  it  constantly, 
and  his  doing  so  may  well  have  been  voluntary. 

Voltaire's  account  is  grossly  inaccurate  where  it  is 
not  sheer  invention.  Saint-Mars  and  the  Mask  came 
to  the  Bastille  in  1698,  not  in  1690.  The  Prisoner 
died  in  1703,  not  in  1704. 

The  guitar,  the  fine  laces,  the  extraordinary  con 
sideration  for  the  Prisoner  evinced  by  Louvois  and 
the  gaolers  of  high  and  low  degree,  existed  only  in 
the  fancy  of  Voltaire. 

So  Truth  has  her  inning  at  last.  The  mystery 
of  the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  is  cleared  away,  and 
with  it  the  many  foolish  or  fantastic  conjectures  of 
several  generations  of  theorists.  Seldom  has  there 
been  such  a  brushing  down  and  sweeping  out  of 
cobwebs.  Or,  to  change  the  figure,  the  most  re 
markable  "paper  chase"  in  history  has  ended  with 
complete  and  undreamed  of  success.  The  enigma 
which  so  long  puzzled  kings  and  courts,  sages  and 
statesmen,  the  truth  which  Michelet  despaired  of 
finding  out,  which  teased  the  great  Napoleon  and 
puzzled  the  honest  nightcap  of  Louis  Philippe,  is 
at  last  made  plain  to  all  save  the  great  multitude 


24  ADVENTURES    IN 

who  prefer  fable  to  fact.  The  riddle  has  been 
solved  and  the  Sphinx  has  destroyed  herself.  Ro 
mance  has  lost  much,  and  yet  the  bare  truth  is  so 
cruel,  so  pathetic,  that  it  can  never  lose  its  power 
to  move  the  pity  and  anger  of  men.  There  is  no 
entry  in  the  Book  of  Kings,  that  scarlet  chronicle 
of  blood  and  tears,  which  burns  the  heart  with  a 
fiercer  indignation;  none  which  more  piercingly  cries 
to  Heaven  for  justice.  And  while  there  shall  re 
main  one  absolute  King  in  the  world,  or  any  rem 
nant  of  the  ancient  superstition  of  royalty,  the  ter 
rible  Witness  of  the  Mask  shall  continue  to  be  sum 
moned  against  that  king  or  that  superstition,  in 
the  sacred  name  of  humanity. 

Clio  having  had  her  merry  jest  on  Monsieur 
de  Voltaire,  and  Truth  having  been  hopelessly  out 
stripped  in  this  famous  double-century  race  with 
Fiction,  who  then  really  was  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask?  .  .  .  Voila  the  story! 

He  was  a  certain  Count  Mattioli,  born  in  1640 
at  Bologna,  and  belonging  to  an  ancient  and  dis 
tinguished  family  of  lawyers.  He  was  deeply 
versed,  we  are  told,  in  civil  and  canonical  law,  and 
while  still  a  young  man  held  a  chair  in  the  University 
of  Bologna.  Fate  reserved  this  profound  student 
of  law  to  be  one  of  the  chief  victims  in  history  of 
that  lawlessness  which  is  the  prerogative  of  kings. 

Mattioli  was  a  true  Italian  of  his  age,  restless, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  25 

ingratiating,  pliant,  scheming,  and  ambitious.  He 
soon  gave  up  his  chair  of  law  and,  having  married 
well  in  his  native  town,  went  to  try  his  fortune  at 
Mantua.  His  alert  abilities  pleased  the  reigning 
Duke  Charles  III,  whose  favor  and  confidence  he 
gained  to  such  a  degree  that  he  was  ultimately  ap 
pointed  Secretary  of  State.  Upon  the  accession  of 
Charles  IV,  Mattioli  was  confirmed  in  his  dignities 
and  created,  in  addition,  Supernumerary  Senator  of 
Mantua,  an  office  carrying  with  it  the  title  of  Count. 
He  was  not,  however,  Secretary  of  State  at  the  time 
of  his  taking  in  hand  certain  negotiations  which  have 
given  him  a  sinister  immortality. 

Fortune  now  went  arm-in-arm  with  Mattioli,  and 
often  he  must  have  thanked  his  stars  that  he  had 
left  Bologna  and  her  dusty  pandects  behind  him. 
If  ever  a  shadow  fell  across  his  heart  in  beautiful 
Mantua,  where  he  walked  with  princes  and  basked 
in  the  sunshine  of  ducal  favor,  be  sure  it  was  not 
the  shadow  of  a  dungeon. 

I  can  trace  here  only  in  barest  outline  the  fatal 
business  which  resulted  in  giving  to  history  the  Man 
in  the  Iron  Mask.  Long  a  web  of  perplexities  and 
contradictions,  it  is  now  made  clear  as  to  every 
essential  detail.  It  is  ludicrous  that  during  all  the 
guessing  and  romancing  and  mare's-nesting  which 
tasked  so  many  ingenious  minds  for  several  genera 
tions,  there  lay  papers  in  the  French  Foreign  Office 
that  told  the  whole  story. 


26  ADVENTURES    IN 

France  had  once  possessed  Piedmont  and  Savoy 
in  Italy.  Richelieu,  in  furtherance  of  his  far-seeing 
diplomacy,  had  restored  them,  keeping  only  the 
stronghold  of  Pignerol  which  might,  upon  occasion, 
serve  as  a  gate  into  Northern  Italy. 

Casale,  an  important  fortified  place,  swept  by 
the  Po,  lying  some  fifteen  leagues  to  the  east  of 
Turin,  belonged  to  the  Duchy  of  Charles  IV  of 
Mantua,  the  liege  lord  and  patron  of  Mattioli. 
Louis  XIV  of  France,  the  Grand  Monarque,  cov 
eted  Casale  for  its  strategical  advantages,  as  did 
also  the  Government  of  Turin.  Possessed  of  Ca 
sale  and  Pignerol,  Louis  would  hold  the  keys  to 
Lombardy,  since  from  Pignerol  in  the  southwest  the 
passage  of  the  Alps  lay  open  to  him,  while  Casale 
would  enable  him  to  command  the  marches  to 
Milan. 

Spain,  the  great  House  of  Austria,  the  House  of 
Savoy,  the  Republic  of  Venice,  and  the  rest  of  the 
Italian  States,  were  all  opposed  to  France  getting 
any  further  foothold  in  Northern  Italy.  It  was  a 
difficult,  perilous  game,  worthy  the  craft  and  ambi 
tion  of  even  so  great  a  king  as  Louis.  On  the  nar 
row  chess-board  to  which  the  play  was  necessarily 
confined,  it  scarcely  seems  that  a  move  could  have 
been  made  without  attracting  the  notice  or  awak 
ening  the  suspicions  of  one  or  other  of  the  inter 
ested  parties.  But  diplomacy  in  those  days,  if  not 
a  finer,  was  at  least  a  more  furtive  art  than  as  now 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  27 

practised.  It  was  also  far  less  subject  to  consid 
erations  of  honor  and  humanity.  The  Seventeenth 
Century  diplomatist  would  not  balk  at  deeds  more 
questionable  than  merely  lying  for  his  country's 
good.  His  conscience  was  in  the  keeping  of  his 
king,  and  there  his  concern  ended. 

The  young  Duke  Charles  of  Mantua,  gambler, 
rake  and  spendthrift,  as  history  depicts  him,  was 
lord  of  Casale.  He  was  both  venal  and  vicious, 
and  he  wanted  money  for  his  pleasures.  Could 
he  be  induced  to  sell  Casale  and  admit  a  French 
garrison  into  the  coveted  stronghold?  No,  as 
suredly,  if  wind  of  the  negotiation  were  to  reach 
Spanish  or  Italian  ears.  Also  the  matter  had  to  be 
kept  from  the  Duchess  Dowager  of  Mantua,  mother 
of  the  young  Duke  Charles,  who  headed  his  coun 
cil  and  was  entirely  given  over  to  the  Spanish  in 
terests. 

The  Abbe  d'Estrades,  minister  for  Louis  at  the 
capital  of  the  Venetian  Republic,  was  charged  with 
the  affair.  The  Great  King,  who  chose  his  servants 
well  and  was  well  served  by  them,  could  not  have 
made  a  happier  choice.  The  Abbe  was  a  typical 
French  diplomat  of  the  Seventeenth  Century,  suave 
and  secretive,  polished  and  polite,  unyielding  and 
unscrupulous.  Bred  to  the  Church,  he  was  of  that 
order  of  functionaries,  half  priests,  half  men  of 
affairs,  whose  peculiar  training  had  rendered  them 
exquisitely  competent  and  delicately  dangerous. 


28  ADVENTURES    IN 

A  pity  that  Mattioli  did  not  mark  this,  and  some 
thing  of  a  wonder,  too,  since  an  own  uncle  of  his 
was  a  Jesuit  father  of  renown.  And  had  not  Mat 
tioli  himself  dipped  into  canon  law?  But  'tis  an  old 
adage  that  the  Fates  blind  us  for  their  own  pur 
poses. 

Let  us  now  make  short  work  of  the  plot  that 
has  been  unravelled  in  our  time  with  so  much  skill 
and  patience  by  Monsieur  Topin  and  Monsieur 
Funck-Brentano. 

D'Estrades  found  sure  means — one  Giuliani — to 
approach  Mattioli,  then  high  in  the  confidence  and 
the  councils  of  Charles,  on  the  subject  of  Casale 
and  the  Duke.  The  Italian  took  the  bait  readily 
and  promised  his  best  efforts  to  advance  the  Great 
King's  purpose.  The  Great  King  assured  him,  in 
a  letter  written  by  the  royal  hand,  of  his  august  ap 
preciation.  Mattioli  opened  the  matter  to  Charles, 
who  by  this  time  was  in  desperate  case,  being  unable 
to  raise  more  money  from  his  good  friends  the  Jews. 
Charles  promptly  agreed  to  sell  and  named  a  price 
that  was  cut  down  more  than  one-half  as  a  result 
of  further  dickering.  Mattioli  always  acting  as  a 
go-between,  the  Duke  went  to  Venice  to  meet  d'Es- 
trades  during  carnival  time,  and  both,  closely 
masked,  held  a  midnight  conference  in  the  street 
(a  true  Seventeenth  Century  detail  that  would  have 
enchanted  Dumas) .  Charles  wanted  the  Great  King 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  29 

to  send  an  army  into  Italy  and  to  appoint  him  Gen 
eralissimo — a  puerile  conceit  of  the  little  man, 
which  almost  imparts  a  gleam  of  humor  to  the  stern 
story.  After  many  delays  and  waverings — the 
French  playing  for  time  and  a  convenient  opportu 
nity,  the  Duke  harassed  at  once  by  his  need  of 
money  and  his  fear  of  the  Spanish — Mattioli  was 
sent  to  Paris  and  a  treaty  was  finally  concluded. 

No  doubt  Mattioli  was  overwhelmed  with  the 
splendor  and  magnificence  of  the  Great  King,  which 
he  so  well  knew  how  to  temper  with  royal  gracious- 
ness.  Louis  admitted  him  to  secret  audience,  gave 
him  a  ring  and  a  sum  of  money,  promised  that  his 
son  should  be  a  king's  page  and  that  his  brother, 
who  was  in  the  Church,  should  receive  preferment. 

This  was  the  only  meeting,  and  most  fittingly  a 
secret  one,  of  the  enormously  unequal  pair  who 
were  soon  to  become  and  many  long  years  to  re 
main  Gaoler  and  Prisoner! 

Mattioli  had  sold  his  country.  He  now  returned 
home  to  betray  the  Great  King.  Within  brief  time 
Spain,  Austria  and  the  principal  Italian  States  were 
apprised  of  the  whole  negotiation,  and  the  project 
of  Louis  was  perforce  abandoned.* 

"Never  was  seen  so  signal  a  piece  of  perfidy," 
said  the  French  minister  Pomponne.  Suspicion  at 
once  fastened  upon  Mattioli  as  the  sole  author  of 

*  Within  two  years  from  this  fiasco  the  negotiation  was  resumed 
and  Casale  admitted  a  French  garrison. 


30  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  disclosure.  In  the  worst  misfortunes  of  men, 
a  woman  is  usually  found  to  bear  a  part.  Louis 
soon  had  proof  positive  of  the  Italian's  treachery, 
for  the  Duchess  of  Savoy,  to  whom  Mattioli  had 
shown  the  incriminating  papers,  made  and  for 
warded  copies  of  them  to  the  Great  King. 

At  this  distance  of  time,  and  with  our  very  dif 
ferent  ethical  predilections,  it  is  hard  to  understand 
why  Mattioli  should  have  committed  either  the  one 
treason  or  the  other.  It  may  be  urged,  in  extenua 
tion  of  the  first,  that  he  was  chiefly  moved  by  the 
desire  to  please  a  kind  but  weak  master — his  own 
reward  appears  to  have  been  small.  Granted  that 
the  apology  is  a  weak  one,  it  is  at  least  within  the 
rules  of  human  charity.  But  the  second  treason, 
the  betrayal  of  Louis,  can  fairly  be  vindicated  on 
the  ground  of  patriotism.  It  was  the  only  satisfac 
tory  atonement  that  he  could  make  for  the  great 
sin  into  which  he  had  fallen.  It  is  not  known  that 
he  asked  or  received  a  penny  or  a  promise  for  his 
complete  disclosure  of  the  plot  to  the  several 
Powers.  And  why  was  his  conduct  not  justifiable 
by  the  diplomatic  ethics  of  the  time?  What 
had  happened  save  only  that  the  corrupter  had  been 
corrupted,  the  biter  bitten,  and  the  betrayer  be 
trayed? 

The  Great  King's  pride  was  wounded  in  its  most 
sensitive  seat.  He,  le  Roi  Soleil,  le  Grand  Mon- 
arque,  to  be  tricked  and  gulled  by  a  petty  Italian  ad- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  31 

venturer,  himself  the  servant  of  a  beggarly  rake 
whose  whole  sovereignty  was  not  worth  the  stakes 
of  one  night's  play  at  the  card  tables  of  Versailles ! 
To  be  made  the  laughing  stock  of  every  Court  in 
Europe!  The  thing  was  as  monstrous  and  unbear 
able  as  an  insult  to  God  upon  his  Throne — that 
God,  bien  entendu,  whom  Louis  regarded  as  his 
Cousin  and  whose  familiar  acquaintance  he  enjoyed, 
together  with  a  large  share  of  His  authority. 
Quickly  he  meditated  and  promptly  he  executed  his 
vengeance. 

On  the  second  of  May,  1679,  ^e  Abbe  d'Estra- 
des,  accompanied  by  a  cousin,  the  Abbe  de  Montes 
quieu,  met  the  Count  Mattioli  by  appointment  at 
a  church  on  the  outskirts  of  Turin.  With  these 
pious  and  pleasant  gentlemen  the  Count  proceeded 
unsuspectingly  to  the  frontier  where  it  was  under 
stood  a  rendezvous  had  been  arranged  with  General 
Catinat,  who  would  supply  him  with  money — for 
as  yet  he  was  ignorant  that  the  French  suspected 
his  treacherous  proceedings,  and  believed  that  he 
was  still  tricking  them.  This  extraordinary  lack  of 
wariness  on  the  part  of  Mattioli,  with  his  feet  set 
among  traps  and  snares,  is  one  of  the  strangest 
things  in  the  story.  No  doubt  it  is  to  be  referred 
wholly  to  the  skill  and  address  of  his  good  friend 
the  Abbe  d'Estrades. 

Catinat  and  a  few  soldiers  arrested  Mattioli  at 
the  place  appointed  and  he  was  presently  under  lock 


32  ADVENTURES    IN 

and  key  in  the  dungeon  of  Pignerol.  The  sun  rose 
on  another  day — and  the  Man  in  the  Mask  had  be 
gun  his  long  captivity! 

D'Estrades  it  was  who  had  proposed  the  kid 
napping  of  Mattioli,  for  through  him  his  sovereign 
master  had  been  fooled,  and  the  priest  in  him,  we 
may  not  uncharitably  suppose,  yearned  for  a  deli 
cate  revenge.  Louis  sanctioned  the  abduction,  and 
"look  to  it"  ran  the  closing  words  of  the  King's 
warrant,  "that  no  one  knows  what  becomes  of  this 
man"  Saint-Mars,  the  governor  of  Pignerol,  was 
ordered  to  "guard  him  in  such  a  manner  that  not 
only  may  he  have  no  communication  with  anyone, 
but  that  he  may  have  cause  to  repent  his  conduct, 
and  that  no  one  may  know  you  have  a  new  pris 


oner." 


These  orders  were  carried  out  during  a  period  of 
twenty-four  years  with  a  rigor  and  exactitude  of 
obedience  which  are  unexampled  in  history.  Mat 
tioli  was  seized  alive  out  of  the  living  world  and 
instantly  became  as  one  dead — nay,  actual  death  had 
been  a  far  more  merciful  punishment.  His  family 
never  learned  his  fate  and  his  name  itself  perished, 
his  wife  dying  in  a  convent  while  he  was  still  a  pris 
oner. 

The  pride  of  the  Great  King  was  saved — the  petty 
creature  who  had  betrayed  his  serene  and  magnifi 
cent  confidence,  the  chief  witness  of  his  humiliation 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  33 

and  the  only  one  ever  likely  to  talk,  was  silent  in 
a  living  grave.* 

Mattioli  was  shut  up  fifteen  years  in  the  dungeon 
of  Pignerol  in  Piedmont,  four  years  in  the  fortress 
on  St.  Margaret's  Island  in  the  Sea  of  Provence 
(the  modern  Riviera),  and  five  years  in  the  Paris 
Bastille.  His  confinement  was  solitary  in  the  strict 
est  sense,  without  respite,  alleviation  or  occupation 
— most  horrible  of  all ! — save  in  some  slight  degree 
for  the  last  three  years  of  that  long  period.  In 
the  twenty-third  year  of  his  sufferings,  the  affair 
of  Casale  being  forgotten  and  the  Great  King  no 
longer  concerned  with  Italy,  Mattioli  was  degraded 
from  his  sinister  importance  as  a  State  Prisoner, 
and  had  to  share  his  cell  with  common  offenders. 
His  gaoler  at  all  three  prisons,  from  the  first  to  the 
last  hour  of  his  captivity,  excepting  a  brief  inter 
val,  was  the  terrible  Saint-Mars,  the  very  type  of 
rigorous  obedience  and  unsleeping  watchfulness.  Of 
this  man  it  was  said  that  his  conception  of  duty  made 
him  as  one  of  his  own  prisoners. 

During  the  far  greater  term  of  his  imprisonment, 
Mattioli  was  doubtless  forgotten  of  all  the  world, 
save  the  vengeance  of  Louis.  The  persistence  of 
the  Great  King's  hatred  of  the  unfortunate  man,  his 
vigilant  cruel  thought  of  him  which  the  slow  passing 

*  Under  threat  of  torture  and  death,  Mattioli  subsequently  revealed 
the  hiding  place  of  the  documents  emanating  from  Versailles  and 
these  were  recovered  by  the  agents  of  Louis. 


34  ADVENTURES    IN 

years  seemed  not  to  temper  or  soften  in  the  least, 
his  ever  keen  and  unsated  malignity  regarding  him, 
strike  us  as  a  distorted  invention  rather  than  a  cold 
precise  narrative  of  fact.  One  is  forced  to  cite  the 
very  words  of  the  Great  King  in  order  to  keep 
oneself  in  countenance. 

Louvois  wrote  Saint-Mars  shortly  after  Mat- 
tioli's  arrest:  "It  is  not  the  intention  of  the  King 
that  the  Sieur  de  Lestang"  (a  name  invented  for 
Mattioli)  "should  be  well  treated  or  that,  except 
the  absolute  necessaries  of  life,  you  should  give  him 
anything  to  soften  his  captivity"  A  little  later: 
"You  must  keep  Lestang  in  the  rigorous  confine 
ment  which  I  enjoined  in  my  former  letters" 

In  eight  months  Mattioli  became  mad,  not  un 
naturally,  and  Saint-Mars  informs  the  Minister 
that  he  complains  of  being  treated  as  a  man  of  his 
quality  and  the  minister  of  a  great  prince  ought  not 
to  be;  also  that  he  tells  Saint-Mars  of  his  daily  con 
versations  with  God  and  the  Angels;  also  that  he 
claims  to  be  nearly  related  to  the  Great  King  and 
wishes  to  lay  his  grievances  before  him. 

These  piteous  recitals  only  seemed  to  harden  the 
Great  King's  heart  the  more,  and  Saint-Mars  is 
rebuked  for  his  "patience"  in  dealing  with  the  Pris 
oner  and  admonished  "to  treat  such  a  rascal  as  he 
deserves" 

Mattioli  presently  recovered  his  reason — at  any 
rate,  we  hear  no  more  of  disturbances  in  that  lonely 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  35 

brain.  It  is  likely  enough  that  his  mind  sank  into 
a  stupor,  from  disuse  of  its  faculties,  which  lasted 
until  the  end. 

At  the  end  of  fifteen  silent,  spectral  years  in  Pign- 
erol,  the  French  were  driven  to  give  up  their  foot 
hold  in  Piedmont  and  the  Prisoner  was  taken  to 
the  Isles  of  Saint  Margaret.  With  his  autocracy 
disputed,  his  armies  repulsed,  and  his  diplomacy 
checkmated,  the  jealous  and  angry  Louis  was  more 
than  ever  concerned  to  bury  in  deepest  mystery 
the  chief  witness  to  one  of  the  most  arbitrary  acts 
of  his  lawless  ambition,  as  well  as  to  perhaps  the 
most  painful  humiliation  in  his  career  of  glory.  The 
greatest  precautions  were  taken  in  removing  the 
Prisoner,  and  Saint-Mars  is  warned  in  a  significant 
despatch  from  Versailles,  "to  see  that  no  one  ever 
learns  what  your  ancient  prisoner  has  done" 

Four  years  at  the  Isles  and  Saint-Mars  the  Great 
Turnkey  of  the  Great  King  is  appointed  Governor 
of  the  Bastille  in  Paris.  These  words  occur  in  his 
letter  of  instructions:  "You  are  to  bring  with  you 
in  all  security  your  ancient  prisoner." 

The  false  name  of  Lestang  had  long  been  dis 
used,  perhaps  forgotten  by  the  King,  his  Ministers 
and  his  Gaoler. 

A  later  despatch  urges  the  importance  of  guard 
ing  the  prisoner  on  the  journey  "in  such  a  manner 
that  he  shall  be  seen  by  no  one" 

Saint-Mars  then  traversed  the  whole  of  France 


36  ADVENTURES    IN 

with  his  captive  in  a  litter,  accompanied  by  an  es 
cort  of  armed  men.  Stopping  over  night  at  his 
chateau  of  Palteau  near  Villeneuve  in  the  central 
department  of  Yonne,  the  Prisoner  was  seen  by  the 
peasants ;  he  wore  a  black  mask  and  they  noticed  that 
his  teeth  and  lips  showed  through;  also  that  he  was 
tall  and  had  white  hair.  Such  are  the  simple  facts 
that  afforded  a  basis  for  the  still  persisting  legend 
of  Villeneuve,  where  the  Prisoner's  dungeon  is 
shown  to  wondering  visitors — a  legend  which  Vil 
leneuve  will  be  slow  to  abandon. 

On  the  1 8th  day  of  September,  1698,  Mattioli  was 
lodged  in  the  Bastille,  that  famous  prison  whose 
baffling  enigma  he  was  to  become  and  whose  gray 
walls  had  sheltered  many  a  more  illustrious  but 
never  a  more  ill-fated  captive.  The  King's  Lieu 
tenant  of  the  Bastille  notes  in  his  journal  that  "the 
Prisoner's  name  is  not  mentioned  and  that  he  is 
always  masked."  Here  he  died  on  November  19, 
1703,  the  register  identifying  him  as  <(the  prisoner 
unknown,  masked  always  with  a  mask  of  black  vel 
vet,  whom  M.  de  Saint-Mars  the  Governor  brought 
with  him  from  the  Isles  of  Saint-Marguerite,  and 
whom  he  had  had  for  a  long  time."  He  was  buried 
in  the  near-by  churchyard  of  the  parish  of  St.  Paul. 

History  adds  one  more  cruel  and  ironical  touch 
to  this  true  tale  of  the  Man  in  the  Mask.  At  the 
very  hour  of  his  unheeded  death  in  the  Bastille,  his 
former  lord  and  master,  Duke  Charles  of  Mantua, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  37 

arrived  on  a  visit  to  Louis  XIV.  Monsieur  Topin 
conjectures  that  they  were  perhaps  feasting  amid 
the  riches  of  the  Luxembourg  Palace,  scarce  a  bow 
shot  distant,  when  the  body  of  their  ancient  inter 
mediary,  dupe  and  victim  was  being  trailed  in  the 
dusk  by  two  turnkeys  to  its  obscure  grave. 


In  the  "Tale  of  Two  Cities"  Dickens  imagines 
his  prisoner  of  the  Bastille  to  have  written: 

"If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart 
of  either  of  the  brothers,  in  all  these  frightful  years, 
to  grant  me  any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife — so 
much  as  to  let  me  know  by  a  word  whether  alive 
or  dead — I  might  have  thought  that  he  had  not 
quite  abandoned  them.  But  now  I  believe  that  the 
mark  of  the  red  cross  is  fatal  to  them,  and  that  they 
have  no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them  and  their 
descendants,  to  the  last  of  their  race,  I,  Alexandre 
Manette,  unhappy  prisoner,  do  this  last  night  of  the 
year  1767,  in  my  unbearable  agony,  denounce  to  the 
times  when  all  these  things  shall  be  answered  for. 
I  denounce  them  to  Heaven  and  to  earth!" 

One  cannot  read  the  true  story  of  the  Man  in 
the  Iron  Mask  without  recalling  these  solemn  and 
prophetic  words  which  Mattioli  might,  with  little 
change,  have  addressed  to  his  royal  torturer.  And 
this  suggests  a  thought  which  leaves  not  wholly 
vain  and  unrecompensed  that  long  crucifixion.  The 


38  ADVENTURES    IN 

vengeance  of  Louis  was  as  exquisite  and  as  per 
fectly  contrived  at  all  points  as  even  so  great  a 
king  could  desire.  But  he  enjoyed  it  only  during 
his  lifetime,  while  the  just  hatred  and  execration 
of  humanity  are  henceforth  everlastingly  decreed 
unto  the  memory  of  the  vindictive  and  most  Chris 
tian  King. 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  39 


MEMORIES 

THERE  are  women  whose  lot  it  is  to  bear 
many  children  and  yet  to  know  little  enough 
of  love;  to  suffer  much  pain  and  sorrow, 
heart-hunger  and  bitterness,  and  to  die  ere  age  may 
come  to  them,  bringing  its  wan  flowers  of  consola 
tion. 

How  shall  God  feed  those  famishing  mother  souls 
denied  the  banquet  of  love  for  which  they  had  en 
dured  so  much?  How  shall  He  satisfy  their  vast 
yearning  for  the  little  hands  and  faces  which  they 
cannot  forget?  Can  there  be  a  greater  anguish 
than  that  of  the  poor  mother,  lonely  and  sorrowful 
in  Heaven,  who  cries  out,  "My  children  live  and 
grow  and  are  happy,  but  they  have  forgotten  me!" 

It  is  of  such  a  mother  that  I  would  trace  a  few 
slight  memories — they  are  only  too  slight,  for  she 
died  when  I  was  under  seven  years,  and  I  have 
never  seen  a  picture  of  her,  save  that  which  I  carry 
in  my  heart.  She  was  of  a  loving,  joyous  nature,  as 
I  judge  by  certain  tokens  in  myself;  a  nature  that 
underwent  a  life-long  starvation,  for  through  all 
her  hard  years  she  had  little  enough  of  love  and 
joy.  Brought  up  in  the  old  stern  faith  that  held 


40  ADVENTURES    IN 

child-bearing  as  a  Divine  chastisement  for  the  Sin 
of  the  Woman,  she  meekly  accepted  her  portion. 
Thirteen  children  came  to  her,  of  whom  I  was  the 
last  born.  I  adore  her  memory  and  there  is  none 
in  all  the  world  of  the  dead  whom  I  would  rather 
see.  Nay,  you  will  not  blame  me  if  I  say  that  I 
would  rather  see  a  picture  of  my  mother  in  her 
youth  than  of  Mary  the  mother  of  Jesus. 

My  very  earliest  recollection  of  her  is  mingled 
with  that  of  a  long  white  ribbon  of  a  road  wind 
ing  through  a  green  Irish  landscape.  My  mother 
is  carrying  me  on  her  back,  and  the  next  youngest 
boy  trudges  along  beside  us.  Lovingly  I  cling  to 
her,  my  head  resting  on  her  shoulder;  I  was  a 
small  child  and  no  heavy  burden.  My  memory 
of  her  is  all  of  kindness;  harsh  word  from  her 
mouth  or  blow  from  her  hand  I  do  not  recall.  She 
is  chatting  to  us,  but  the  words  will  not  come  back 
to  me,  though  I  have  never  lost  the  tones  of  her 
voice.  How  sweet  and  fresh  the  air  is!  for  it  is 
morning  and  I  can  see  the  dew  on  the  roadside 
grass.  As  we  pass  along,  we  meet  now  and  then 
a  wayfaring  man  who  salutes  my  mother,  and  the 
words  I  remember  with  perfect  clearness. 

"Good  morrow,  ma'am." 

"Good  morrow,  kindly,  sir." 

So  we  trudge  on  through  the  wonderful  green 
world,  whilst  more  and  more  people  say  good  mor- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  41 

row  to  us.  How  happy  am  I  to  be  carried  so  high 
and  far  by  my  gay,  strong  young  mother!  She  has 
not  put  me  down  once,  and  the  little  fellow  beside 
her  wants  to  be  carried,  too.  Ah,  but  is  she  indeed 
gay?  for  I  heard  a  sob  just  now,  and  I  strive  to  look 
into  her  face  to  see  if  she  be  weeping. 
Dear  mother,  what  was  thy  sorrow  and  whither 
wert  thou  going  that  far  off  morn? 

There  is  an  old  gypsy  fortune-telling  man  in  the 
house,  and  we  children  are  looking  at  him,  awe- 
stricken.  My  mother  gives  him  something  to  eat 
and  also  a  few  small  coins,  to  get  him  to  tell  our 
fortunes.  He  is  a  very  hairy  red-faced  old  man 
and  makes  strange  noises  in  eating,  which  keeps  us 
from  crowding  round  him.  Soon  he  finishes  and 
in  dumb  show  asks  for  a  slate  and  pencil,  for  he 
cannot  speak.  Then  he  writes  out  my  fortune, 
all  the  time  making  even  more  alarming  noises,  ac 
companied  with  fearful  grimaces  which  send  us 
young  ones  cowering  into  corners.  My  mother  takes 
the  slate  from  him  and  frowns  as  if  she  does  not 
like  my  fortune  at  all.  She  will  have  no  more  for 
tunes  told  and  she  sends  the  gypsy  packing.  My 
mother  was  long  dead  before  I  learned  what  the 
uncouth  seer  had  scribbled.  I  was  to  lead  a  gay 
life,  clink  my  glass,  and  have  a  christening  before 
a  wedding! 

The  fortune  being  judged  an  evil  one  (though 
worse  things  have  happened  to  me)  was  never  for- 


42  ADVENTURES    IN 

gotten  in  the  family,  and  on  account  of  the  last 
clause  especially,  my  elder  sisters  always  regarded 
me  with  prejudice.  Howbeit,  that  part  of  the  pre 
diction  at  least  was  happily  falsified:  the  wedding 
came  in  due  time,  and  the  christening  followed  at 
the  proper  interval.  .  .  . 

My  memories  grow  more  distinct.  We  have  left 
the  house  where  the  gypsy  man  came,  and  the  vil 
lage  too,  where  I  used  to  see  many  small  and  fear 
fully  stubborn  donkeys  drawing  immense  loads — 
once  hanging  on  behind  a  cart  that  was  driven  by 
an  old  drunken  couple,  I  got  my  foot  caught  some 
how  and  my  cries  failing  to  attract  their  notice,  a 
man  released  me  by  running  into  the  road  and  stun 
ning  the  donkey  with  a  club.  And  I  forgot  my  pain 
with  my  mother's  arms  about  me.  .  .  . 

For  many  days  we  live  in  a  big  ship  and  sail 
over  a  great  water;  then  we  land  somewhere  and 
go  to  live  in  a  house  quite  as  before,  only  there  are 
no  donkeys,  and  there  are  more  people  in  the  place 
and  very  much  more  noise,  such  as  screaming  of 
whistles  and  ringing  of  bells,  and  the  people  are  not 
so  kind  and  nice  as  those  who  used  to  say  good  mor 
row  to  my  mother.  The  boys  are  very  rude  and 
they  call  me  "bub"  or  "greenhorn,"  which  I  do 
not  like  at  all.  .  .  . 

I  am  going  to  the  sisters'  school,  which  is  in  a 
large  building  near  the  church.  Some  of  the  sisters 
are  kind  and  gentle  and  have  lovely  faces  framed 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  43 

in  their  snow-white  linen  caps.  But  the  one  who 
teaches  my  class  (I  think  they  called  her  Sister 
Dolores)  fills  me  with  terror.  She  has  angry  black 
eyes  and  I  never  see  her  smile.  Her  heavy  brows 
make  a  straight  black  line  across  her  nose,  and 
there  is  the  same  line,  only  not  so  heavy,  on  her 
lip.  She  is  very  harsh  toward  the  little  boys  of  her 
class;  her  discipline,  like  her  religion,  is  one  wholly 
of  fear;  the  mere  rustling  of  her  sombre  robe  and 
the  clink  of  her  rosaries  and  cross  carry  terror  unto 
us  all. 

It  is  winter  and  there  is  a  huge  wood  furnace  in 
the  school  room.  The  roaring  fire  offers  a  con 
genial  text  to  Sister  Dolores,  for  she  is  always  tell 
ing  us  about  the  place  where  bad  boys  go  to  when 
they  die.  Sometimes,  when  she  wants  to  make  the 
lesson  very  strong  or  to  make  an  example  of  some 
body,  she  has  a  couple  of  big  boys  come  in  from 
another  room  and  hold  a  little  fellow  up  to  the 
blazing  open  door  of  the  furnace.  Awful  is  the 
terror  of  the  child  and  his  screams  drive  the  whole 
school  into  a  panic.  Sister  Dolores  is  not  in  the 
least  disturbed,  but  a  more  than  ordinary  paleness 
brings  out  the  black  line  on  her  lip.  I  am  glad 
she  has  never  had  this  thing  done  to  me.  (No  doubt 
the  deep-rooted  hatred  I  have  toward  the  grim  doc 
trine  of  Hell  dates  from  this  early  and  practical 
illustration.) 

But  I  know  the  sister  does  not  like  me,  for  once 


44  ADVENTURES    IN 

when  she  was  punishing  me  with  the  ruler,  the  priest 
came  suddenly  into  the  school  room  and  bade  her 
leave  me  alone.  She  turned  very  white  and  after 
wards  I  saw  tears  in  her  black  eyes — I  fear  they 
were  not  such  tears  as  the  angels  weep.  Sister 
Dolores  had  her  revenge  on  me,  all  in  due  time; 
but  I  do  not  mind  it  now,  since  it  gave  me  so  strong 
a  memory  of  my  mother.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  playing  truant  a  week  or  more  and 
the  sister  finds  it  out — there  are  boys  who  tell  her 
everything  and  whom  she  never  punishes.  I  know 
she  is  glad  of  the  chance  and  that  I  will  get  all 
that  is  coming  to  me.  I  do.  Sister  Dolores  gives 
me  fifty  blows  with  a  heavy  ruler  on  each  hand. 
It  is  hard  work,  but  she  does  not  flinch,  and  she 
sheds  no  tears  as  when  the  priest  rebuked  her.  He 
does  not  come  now  to  save  me,  and  the  tears  are  all 
mine.  I  fall  to  my  knees,  but  still  I  have  to  hold 
out  my  hand,  and  the  full  count  is  given. 

I  said  nothing  to  my  mother  that  night,  for  I 
feared  my  father  and  knew  he  would  side  with 
Sister  Dolores.  But  next  morning  both  hands  were 
so  swollen  that  I  could  not  hold  a  tea  cup,  and  I 
suffered  great  pain.  My  mother  soon  had  the  truth. 
She  wept  with  pity  and  flamed  with  anger  alternately 
— dear  mother !  I  doubt  me  much  if  any  pain  of 
mine  has  ever  drawn  tears  from  other  eyes  than 
yours. 

Ah,  how  she  gave  it  to  Sister  Dolores  that  very 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  45 

day,  with  me  beside  her!  I  was  not  so  young  but 
that  I  tasted  a  bit  of  satisfaction,  for  the  saintly 
Dolores  did  not  enjoy  the  interview.  One  thing 
that  I  remember  of  the  duel  betwixt  the  loving  and 
the  loveless  woman  still  amuses  me.  My  mother 
demanded  why  she  had  punished  me  so  inhumanly, 
and  showing  my  tortured  hands,  asked  why  Dolores 
had  not  taken  down  my  clothes  and  chastised  me 
in  a  proper  fashion.  Whereat  the  good  sister  hid 
her  face  with  cloistral  modesty.  ...  I  never 
went  back  to  her  gentle  teaching. 

Peace  to  Dolores,  her  moustache  and  her  mem 
ory!  I  forgive  her  and  I  can  even  think  kindly 
of  her,  because  she  unwittingly  helped  me,  though 
but  a  child,  to  prize  the  loving  mother-heart  that 
I  was  soon  to  lose. 

Too  soon,  alas!  For  it  was  only  a  short  time 
thereafter,  and  in  my  childish  memory  hardly  seems 
a  week,  when  going  into  my  mother's  room  one 
morning,  I  found  her  strangely  silent.  Yet  her  blue 
eyes  were  wide  open,  and  I  wondered  why  she  did 
not  speak  to  me.  My  mother  was  dead. 

I,  her  last  born,  am  now  about  as  old  as  she  was 
when  she  left  us,  but  there  is  never  a  day  that  I 
do  not  think  of  her,  and  my  longing  to  see  her  is 
keen  and  fresh  as  that  of  a  child.  This  devotion 
goes  not  without  recompense  (if  a  skeptic  may  say 
so  much),  for  some  years  ago,  at  the  crisis  of  a 
serious  illness,  when  indeed  I  had  been  given  up 


46  ADVENTURES    IN 

by  doctors  and  family,  I  was  acutely  conscious  of 
her  presence  in  my  room.  And  sometimes,  though 
not  often,  I  waken  from  a  dream  filled  with  a  sense 
of  great  and  inexplicable  joy,  and  languorous  as  with 
the  breath  of  lilies,  of  which  I  remember  nothing 
at  all  definite,  as  though  some  Power  had  bidden  me 
to  forget,  .  .  .  with  this  word  trembling  on 
my  lips— "Mother!" 

*  *  * 

My  heart  it  is  a  ruin'd  place 

That  Time  and  Sorrow  have  laid  bare; 
A  garden  void  of  every  trace 

Of  beauty  once  that  linger'd  there. 

And  yet  not  so, — for  still  there  spring 
Roses  of  rare  and  wondrous  hue, 

That  tempt  a  jaded  heart  to  sing — 
And  one  that  breathes  of  you! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  47 


/AM  glad  of  my  friends  and  I  am  equally  glad 
of  my  enemies — but  hush!  not  a  word  to  the 
latter,  for  then  they    might  want  to   be   my 
friends,  which  really  would  not  do  at  all!     For  I 
could  not  be  what  I  am  without  both  friends  and 
foes — both  are  necessary  to  the  inner  me.     I  went 
wrong  about  this  for  many  years,  but  now  I  am 
wiser — /  know! 


48  ADVENTURES    IN 


CLAUDE  TILLIER 

HUMANITY  has  its  roll  of  saints  as  well 
as  the  One  True  Church,  but  seldom  does 
a  name  appear  on  both  rosters  of  the 
canonized.  The  Devil's  Advocate  has  his  chance 
to  plead  against  the  one  as  against  the  other.  To 
make  the  parallel  complete,  the  faithful  of  the  One 
True  Church  pray  to  their  saints;  the  believers 
in  the  larger  creed  of  humanity  invoke  those  shin 
ing  names  upon  the  course  of  liberty  and  progress. 

It  is  of  one  among  the  humblest  and  least  known 
of  the  saints  of  humanity  that  I  am  about  to  write. 
No  better  proof  of  the  high  worth  of  such  a  soul 
could  be  required  than  this  impulse,  strong  upon 
me,  to  pay  some  tribute,  not  altogether  unworthy 
I  may  hope,  to  the  virtues  summoned  in  the  name 
and  fame  of  Claude  Tillier.  Both  name  and  fame 
are  little  known  to  us,  while  we  are  deafened  and 
overwhelmed  with  the  petty  trumpeting,  the  vul 
gar  insistence  of  the  mediocre.  In  the  clamor  of 
these  baser  voices  many  precious  messages  are  lost 
— nothing  more  precious,  we  may  believe,  than  the 
gospel  of  such  a  life. 

"I  fell  into  this  world,"  writes  Tillier,  "like  a 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  49 

leaf  that  the  storm  shakes  from  the  tree  and  rolls 
along  the  highway.'*  He  was  a  child  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  born  in  the  ninth  year  of  the  Republic,  1801, 
at  Clamecy,  a  small  town  in  the  Department  of 
Nievere.  But  one  of  his  few  biographers  bids  us 
take  note  that  his  birthplace  was  in  the  centre  of 
ancient  Gaul,  near  the  Loire,  in  the  true  home  of  the 
Gallic  spirit,  on  the  boundary  line  between  Trou 
badour  and  Trouvere.  Never  was  a  man  of  true 
genius  condemned  to  a  more  adverse  fate.  He,  a 
son  of  the  Revolution,  poet,  thinker,  philosopher, 
often  felt  the  sharp  tooth  of  hunger;  clung  always 
to  the  ragged  skirts  of  want;  died  at  last  in  early 
manhood  as  poor  as  he  had  lived.  Ah,  but  this  is 
not  all!  For  he  tells  us:  "I  did  not  lose  courage — 
I  always  hoped  that  out  of  the  wings  of  some  bird 
sweeping  the  skies,  a  quill  would  fall  down  fitted 
to  my  fingers,  and  I  have  not  been  disappointed." 

With  this  quill  he  wrote,  "My  Uncle  Benjamin," 
his  masterpiece — indeed,  his  one  book.  Happy 
among  the  sons  of  Cadmus  is  he  who  writes  but  one 
book  and  that  a  great  one !  Long  will  his  fame  be 
preserved  after  the  mighty  tribe  of  the  voluminous 
shall  have  littered  the  shores  of  oblivion.  Decay, 
death  and  silence  are  written  against  the  fecund, 
past  and  present.  Hugo  produced  as  much  prose, 
poetry  and  drama  as  though  gifted  with  power  to 
multiply  himself  by  fifty.  Time  may  be  when 
enough  shall  not  remain  for  one.  Scott  slumbers  a 


50  ADVENTURES    IN 

lethal  sleep,  crushed  under  his  folios.  Most  of  the 
Elizabethans  and  their  imitators  are  dead,  save 
Shakespeare,  and  even  his  best  makes  no  more  than 
one  good  book.  The  same  is  true  of  many  later 
scribblers,  more  or  less  famous,  who  worked  out 
their  poor  brains,  and  having  made,  as  they  thought, 
a  monument  for  themselves,  fell  asleep  under  it 

it  is  a  tale 

Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

To  this  favor  must  the  present  literary  tribe 
come,  whose  name  is  legion,  in  constant  parturi 
tion  at  the  behest  of  the  publishers.  Good  apothe 
cary,  give  me  an  ounce  of  civet  to  sweeten  my  imagi 
nation! — and  let  me  take  into  my  loving  hands  the 
precious  thin  volume  of  Elia  and  this  cherished 
souvenir  of  Tillier.  .  .  . 

A  formal  criticism  of  "My  Uncle  Benjamin"  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  write.  The  book  is  a  message 
straight  from  the  heart  of  a  true  man.  Could  more 
be  said?  Fine  as  is  its  literary  art,  fresh  its  sym 
pathy  of  touch  as  the  breath  of  the  morning,  keen 
its  irony  and  brilliant  its  analysis  of  motive, — all 
these  are  subordinate  to  the  deep  note  of  humanity, 
without  which  art  is  void  and  dead.  The  begin 
nings  of  a  story,  somewhere  observes  Mr.  Howells, 
are  often  obscure.  Doubtless  this  is  true  of  the 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  51 

Frenchman's  charming  work.  What  is  not  ob 
scure,  however,  is  the  vital  genius  of  the  book,  the 
living  force  of  the  man  behind  it,  stirring  the  heart, 
thrilling  the  pulse,  though  the  brain  which  wrought 
the  spell  has  been  dust  for  sixty  years. 

We  know  that  Tillier  wrote  it  for  the  feuilleton 
of  a  provincial  newspaper,  where  it  long  lay  hid 
den  before  a  real  publisher  was  found.  We  know 
also  that  recognition  in  due  measure  never  came  to 
him  during  his  life;  that  it  is  only  within  a  few 
years  the  world  has  taken  note  of  him.  These 
are  the  marks  of  the  true  Immortal !  We  would 
not  have  it  otherwise  now,  rightly  appraising  the 
legacy  he  left  us.  One  can  say  nothing  that  is  not 
trite  on  this  subject  of  neglected  genius  breaking 
its  bonds  after  infinite  struggle,  rising  above  the 
vapors  of  ignorance  and  envy,  and  conquering  from 
beyond  the  grave.  And  yet  if  aught  should  move 
the  depths  within  us,  it  is  this.  O  death,  where  is 
thy  victory!  O  true  soul,  intent  on  thy  God-marked 
course,  scorning  all  petty  human  accidents!  O 
lover  of  liberty,  keeping  thy  faith  without  a  stain 
amid  a  sordid  world !  O  gentle  hero,  hard  was  thy 
sufferance,  great  shall  be  thy  guerdon.  To  thee 
humanity  offers  its  love  and  tears.  Thy  name  is  a 
shrine,  thy  memory  an  abiding  place  where  the  just 
and  true  shall  pause  awhile  to  gather  strength  for 
the  future  that  shall  yet  be  won !  .  .  . 

It  would  be  easy  to  point  out  certain  mechanical 


52  ADVENTURES    IN 

defects  in  Tillier's  charming  story.  There  is  very 
little  action,  no  plot  at  all,  and  the  end  is  inconse 
quential.  Mr.  Stevenson  observes  that  the  blow 
from  Rawdon  Crawley's  fist,  delivered  upon  the 
noble  features  of  my  Lord  Steyne,  made  "Vanity 
Fair"  a  work  of  art.  So  it  might  be  said  that  the 
enforced  osculation  of  Dr.  Benjamin  Rathery  upon 
the  anatomy  of  the  Marquis  de  Cambyse  is  the  epi 
cal  incident  of  Tillier's  novel.  But  who  cares  for 
plots,  intrigues  and  "such  gear"  in  the  presence  of 
manifest  genius?  Let  us  leave  all  that  to  the  penny 
dreadfuls  of  the  hour.  It  has  no  place  in  the  esti 
mation  of  such  a  writer  as  Tillier. 

And  yet  the  story,  even  as  a  story,  is  as  excellent 
of  its  kind  as  Goldsmith's  delightful  tale.  It  is 
marked  by  the  same  unstrained  simplicity,  with  a 
deeper  philosophy,  a  keener  insight  into  human  na 
ture,  and  perhaps  a  finer  literary  art  than  we  may 
ascribe  to  the  more  famous  Irishman.  What  a 
merry  company  is  that  to  which  Tillier  introduces 
us! — Machecourt  and  Page  and  Millet-Rataut,  the 
poet;  Arthus  and  Rapin  and  Dr.  Minxit,  with  his 
amazing  theory  of  physic;  and  the  prince  of  good 
drinkers,  the  incomparable  Uncle  Benjamin.  If 
you  have  not  read  how  that  jovial  giant  imperson 
ated  the  Wandering  Jew  for  the  simple  folk  of 
Moulot,  you  have  skipped  as  good  a  thing  as  you 
shall  find  in  Rabelais  or  Le  Sage.  Say  also  that 
you  have  missed  the  Doctor's  exquisite  revenge  on 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  53 

the  illustrious  Marquis  de  Cambyse,  and  I  am  sorry 
for  you  indeed. 

Tillier  suffers  under  the  reproach  of  having  been 
a  provincial.  Paris  never  made  him  her  own, 
though  once  he  walked  her  pavements  a  dejected 
lad;  and  the  Academy  of  the  Immortals  knew 
nothing  of  him.  A  drudging  schoolmaster,  an  un 
willing  conscript  in  a  cause  which  his  soul  abhor 
red — the  cause  of  the  Holy  Alliance;  a  poor  pam 
phleteer,  an  obscure  journalist,  waging  war  all  too 
brilliant  against  the  bigoted  clergy,  the  stupid 
bourgeoisie  of  his  native  district,  now  and  then  with 
the  instinct  of  genius  turning  to  higher  themes; — 
in  all  this,  you  will  say,  there  was  little  to  give  prom 
ise  of  an  immortal  reputation.  Yet,  oh  marvellous 
power  of  truth  and  genius,  see  now  after  sixty  years 
the  name  of  this  humble  man  shedding  a  clear  light 
upon  his  native  place,  which  all  the  world  may  see; 
adding  its  distinct  ray  even  to  the  rich  literary 
glory  of  his  race.  Many  a  pilgrim  has  found  his 
way  to  the  sunken  grave  at  Nevers  where  rests 
this  son  of  nature,  this  apostle  of  liberty,  whose  free 
forehead  was  never  shamed  with  a  lie.  The  trea 
sure  of  his  thought  is  no  longer  locked  up  in  his 
own  language;  it  is  now  a  precious  part  of  the  lit 
erature  of  many  tongues  and  stranger  peoples.  The 
seed  of  the  humble  sower  has  sprung  up  a  hundred 
fold,  and  the  harvest  is  now  and  forever! 

I  have  called  Tillier  one  of  the  saints  of  human- 


54  ADVENTURES    IN 

ity.  Let  me  add  a  word  to  prove  that  the  charac 
terization  is  neither  forced  nor  unworthy.  A  Ger 
man  translator  says  of  him  truly  that  "unselfish 
ness  was  his  virtue  and  human  dignity  his  relig 
ion."  The  human  saintship  of  the  man  may  easily 
be  established  who,  in  his  own  phrase,  "always  took 
the  part  of  the  weak  against  the  strong,  always 
lived  beneath  the  tattered  tents  of  the  conquered 
and  slept  by  their  hard  bivouacs."  So  absolutely 
true  and  free  was  this  man  who,  again  in  his  own 
words,  "took  his  daily  bread  out  of  God's  hand, 
without  asking  for  more," — that  we  may  divine  at 
once  the  creed  of  such  a  nature.  "I  do  not  pray," 
he  says,  "for  the  reason  that  God  knows  better  than 
I  what  He  must  do,  nor  do  I  adore  Him  because 
He  does  not  need  adoration,  and  the  worship  which 
the  masses  offer  Him  is  nothing  but  the  flattery  of 
selfish  creatures  who  want  to  enter  Paradise.  But 
if  I  have  a  penny  to  spare,  I  give  it  to  the  poor." 

In  drawing  the  lineaments  of  a  liberal  saint,  it 
is  likely  enough  that  many  pious  people  will  find  a 
resemblance  to  the  Devil.  Tillier's  life  was  embit 
tered  by  some  polemics  unworthy  of  his  genius.  He 
incurred  the  anathema  of  the  Nevers  clergy  by  scof 
fing  at  the  alleged  thighbone  of  Saint  Flavia,  and 
the  good  Catholics  of  the  place  believed  that  his 
early  death  was  due  to  the  vengeance  of  the  out 
raged  virgin.  One  must  regret  that  such  talents  as 
his  were  diverted  from  their  high  and  proper  use 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  55 

by  this  petty  warfare.  The  same  remark  applies 
to  his  long  war  with  Monsieur  Dupin,  the  official 
big-wig  of  the  district.  But  Tillier  saw  no  differ 
ence  between  bigotry  in  the  abstract  and  bigotry 
in  the  concrete;  between  the  official  charlatanism 
which  had  the  nation  for  its  stage  and  a  reduced 
copy  of  the  same  at  home.  In  this,  also,  dropping 
the  question  of  his  literary  reputation,  he  was  act 
ing  the  part  of  a  true  man. 

My  reading  has  found  nothing  more  beautiful 
and  pathetic  than  the  closing  scene  in  the  life  of 
Claude  Tillier.  It  is  drawn  for  us  by  his  own  hand. 
His  very  soul  speaks  to  us — scarcely  does  the  ves 
ture  of  clay  intervene.  With  death  near  to  claim 
him,  he  turned  once  more  to  the  world  which  had 
scorned  him,  and  his  genius  attained  a  higher  and 
purer  eloquence  than  it  had  ever  known.  Never 
from  the  soul  of  man  has  come  a  message  more 
sweet  and  tender,  searching  the  heart  with  a  deeper 
pathos,  than  this  in  which  he  shaped  his  farewell 
to  life: 

"I  die  a  few  days  before  my  schoolmates,  but  I 
die  at  that  age  when  youth  is  nearing  its  end  and 
life  is  but  a  long  decay.  Unimpaired  I  return  to 
God  the  gifts  with  which  he  entrusted  me;  free, 
my  thought  still  soars  through  space.  .  .  . 

I  am  like  the  tree  that  is  cut  down  and  still  bears 
fruit  on  the  old  trunk  amidst  the  young  shoots  that 
come  after.  Pale,  beautiful  Autumn!  this  year 
thou  hast  not  seen  me  on  thy  paths  that  are  fringed 


56  ADVENTURES    IN 

with  fading  flowers.  Thy  mild  sun,  thy  spicy  air 
have  refreshed  me  only  through  my  window;  but 
we  depart  together.  With  the  last  leaf  of  the  pop 
lar,  with  the  last  flower  of  the  meadow,  with  the 
last  song  of  the  birds,  I  wish  to  die, — aye,  with  all 
that  is  beautiful  in  the  space  of  a  year.  May  the 
first  breath  of  frost  call  me  away.  Happy  he  who 
dies  young  and  need  not  grow  old!" 

Dear  Master,  Friend,  Poet,  our  yearning  love  and 
regret  may  not  heal  the  sorrows  which  were  thy 
earthly  portion;  but  thy  spirit  lives  on  to  guide  us. 
It  is  enough:  hail  and  farewell! 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  57 


rHERE  is  a  wine  sweeter  than  any  sung 
By  Omar's  cunning  wine-enchanted  tongue; 
It  is  the  subtle  honey  of  your  mouth, 
For  which  e'en  he  the  grape  away  had  flung. 

"A  loaf  of  bread,  a  jug  of  wine  and  thou" — 
So  sang  the  bard  of  ages  past  and  Now; 
No   lover  he — a  glutton  rather  say: 
Your  kisses  would  alone  suffice,  I  trow. 


58  ADVENTURES    IN 


GEORGE  MOORE,  LOVER 

"Another  pretty  day  passed,  a  day  of  meditation 
on  art  and  women — and  what  else  is  there  to  medi 
tate  about?  To-morrow  will  haply  be  the  same  as 
to-day,  and  the  day  after  that  I  shall  be  occupied 
with  what  I  once  heard  dear  old  M'Cormac,  Bishop 
of  Galway,  describe  in  his  sermon  as  uthe  degrading 
passion  of  'loave.'  ' 

THIS  is  the  frankness  of  George  Moore  than 
which  nothing  more  frank  is  to  be  had 
from  English  literature  as  made  nowadays. 
And  it  is  but  fair  to  add,  nothing  more  delightful. 

Mr.  Moore  does  not  overstate  the  matter  in  his 
naive  confession — love  is  the  burden  of  his  song, 
love  that  Byron  called  "a  fearful  and  a  lovely 
thing,"  in  his  latest  as  in  his  earliest  book.  It 
made  up  the  bulk  of  his  confessions  as  a  youngster, 
and  it  is  the  sum  of  his  reminiscences  as  an  oldster 
(if  he  will  pardon  so  convenient  a  word).  A  ter 
ribly  old  theme,  to  be  sure,  as  old  as  life,  and  as 
young  also;  one  that  forever  interests  us,  it  must 
be  said,  in  spite  of  the  Bishop  of  Galway. 

Although  he  cast  off  his  ancestral  faith  early  in 
life,  the  confessional  habit  has  persisted  in  Mr. 
Moore — is  it  not  a  bit  curious  that  he  overlooks 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  59 

this  in  his  copious  self-revelations?  Thus,  he  has 
given  us  two  books,  one  in  youth  and  one  in  middle 
age  (sad  euphemism!),  dealing  for  the  most  part 
with  the  good  times  and  les  bonnes  fortunes  of 
George  Moore.  From  first  to  last  he  has  become 
one  of  the  finest  literary  artists  in  the  world  (shall 
we  ever  forget  how,  in  the  days  of  "awful  Emma," 
he  lammed  the  British  Philistine  and  exposed  the 
domination  of  the  Villa?) — yet  even  more  than  his 
charming  books  one  must  envy  his  good  times.  His 
life  is  mostly  a  paean  of  pleasure  and  satisfaction; 
exquisitely  organized  and  with  a  rare  artistic  sense, 
he  was  wise  enough  to  make  a  thrifty  use  of  such 
means  and  opportunities  as  do  not  commonly  fall 
to  the  literary  man.  Hear  him: 

"I  can  never  look  upon  this  city  without  strong 
emotion;  it  has  been  all  my  life  to  me.  I  came  here 
in  my  youth,  I  relinquished  myself  to  Paris, 
and  Paris  has  made  me.  How  much  of  my  mind  do 
I  owe  to  Paris !  And  by  thus  acquiring  a  fatherland 
more  ideal  than  the  one  fate  had  arrogantly  im 
posed,  I  have  doubled  my  span  of  life.  Do  I  not 
exist  in  two  countries?  Have  I  not  furnished  myself 
with  two  sets  of  thoughts  and  sensations?  Ah!  the 
delicate  delight  of  owning  uw  pays  amle — a  country 
where  you  may  go  when  weary  to  madness  of  the 
routine  of  life,  sure  of  finding  there  all  the  sensations 
of  home,  plus  those  of  irresponsible  caprice.  The 
pleasure  of  a  literature  that  is  yours,  without  being 
wholly  your  own,  a  literature  that  is  like  an  exquisite 


60  ADVENTURES    IN 

mistress,  in  whom  you  find  consolation  for  all  the 
commonplaces  of  life." 

It  was  said  of  Maupassant  that  he  hated  to  be 
identified  with  any  of  his  stories  and  especially  re 
sented  the  intimation  that  his  personal  adventures 
had  formed  the  ground-work  of  "Bel  Ami."  George 
Moore,  on  the  contrary,  is  his  own  declared  and, 
in  fact,  only  successful  hero.  Early  in  his  literary 
career  he  made  himself  and  saw  that  the  work  was 
good.  And  with  this  auto-creation  he  has  been 
mainly  content — for  what  is  Oliver  Gogarty  but 
George  again  under  a  priest's  cassock?  Lovers  of 
literature  have  no  right  to  complain,  for  the  enter 
tainment  has  been  rich  and  unremitting. 

Of  course,  the  Moral  Censor  has  something  to 
say,  George  Moore  being  a  notorious  offender  in 
point  of  freedom.  In  truth  it  must  be  allowed  that 
the  two  books  about  himself  ("Confessions  of  a 
Young  Man"  and  "Memoirs  of  My  Deead  Life") 
are  full  of  fornication — like  flies  crossing  in  the 
air,  as  Wordsworth  said  of  Goethe's  "Wilhelm 
Meister."  Moore  justifies  himself  incidentally  with 
the  blushing  truism  that  "art  owes  a  great  deal  to 
adultery;"  and  these  few  words  define  his  attitude 
more  validly  than  the  entire  elaborate  "Apologia" 
prefixed  to  the  memoirs. 

But  the  man  is  too  Irish  (much  as  he  would  hate 
the  attribution)  to  fall  into  sensualism  of  the 
grosser  kind — there  is  little  of  that  among  a  peo- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  61 

pie  who  have  chastised  their  natural  instincts  during 
a  thousand  years.  He  is  also  too  much  of  a  poet, 
of  too  fine  a  grain,  to  offer  us  the  piggery  of  certain 
French  writers  and  their  English  women  imitators. 
Indeed  I  think  he  seems  often  afraid  of  real  pas 
sion,  which  is  perhaps  only  another  way  of  saying 
that  he  is  too  selfish — we  cannot  doubt  that  he  loves 
George  Moore  better  than  any  of  the  little  blonde 
women  by  the  Seine  whom  he  pursued,  captured,  en 
joyed  and  abandoned.  Many  inadvertent  hints  point 
to  this,  artfully  as  he  has  drawn  his  literary  por 
trait;  but  the  thing  which  proves  it  beyond  a  doubt 
is  the  absence  from  both  books  of  memoirs  of  any 
thing  like  a  real  man-friendship.  Marshall  in 
the  earlier  book  is  the  best  he  can  or  will  do  for 
us  ...  and  you  remember  what  he  did  to 
Marshall  when  he  had  no  further  use  for  him! 
What  need  to  write? — "Everything  conspired  to  en 
able  me  to  gratify  my  body  and  my  brain;  and  do 
you  think  this  would  have  been  so  if  I  had  been  a 
good  man?  If  you  do  you  are  a  fool;  good  inten 
tions  and  bold  greed  go  to  the  wall,  but  subtle  selfish?- 
ness,  with  a  dash  of  unscrupulousness,  pulls  more 
plums  out  of  life's  pie  than  the  seven  deadly  vir 


tues." 


I  suspect  Mr.  Moore  has  always  been  a  bit  of  a 
snob  and  a  cad — think  of  an  Irishman  hating  Ire 
land  but  not  forgetting  to  mention  his  English  valet! 
— and  snobs  are  incapable  of  friendship. 


62  ADVENTURES    IN 

Furthermore,  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  the  Perfect  Lover  (such  as  George  Moore 
would  have  us  believe  that  he  is  or  has  been)  is  he 
who  loves  only  himself  and  women;  or  he  who  wrote 
as  a  young  man  (with  a  smirk)  that  "the  real  genius 
for  love  lies  not  in  getting  into  but  in  getting  out  of 
love";  or  he  who  stopped  to  record  as  a  middle- 
aged  man  (with  a  sneer)  that  "it  is  only  with  scent 
and  silk  and  artifices  that  we  raise  love  from  an  in 
stinct  to  a  passion."  The  greater  depths,  the  higher 
sublimities  of  love  are  not  for  either  of  these,  as 
they  have  not  been  (perhaps)  for  George  Moore. 

But  how  fascinating  he  is,  neanmoins,  with  his 
cool  man-friendships  and  elegant  passions  depending 
so  much  on  lace  and  heliotrope!  We  are  sure  that 
he  would  never  sacrifice  his  ease  or  comfort,  not 
to  speak  of  profounder  things,  for  man  or  woman. 
To  do  him  strict  justice,  he  never  pretends  that  he 
would — the  greater  generosities  were  left  out  of 
George.  Even  in  his  early  days  in  Paris,  at  an  age 
when  young  men  form  Theban  friendships  and 
share  each  other's  purses,  we  can  be  sure  that 
George  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  And  greatly  as  I 
admire  his  art,  I  have  never  wholly  liked  the  man 
since  he  told  us  (in  his  first  book)  that  he  "could 
not  recall  a  case  of  man  or  woman  who  ever  occu 
pied  any  considerable  part  of  his  thoughts  and  did 
not  contribute  largely  to  his  moral  or  physical  wel 
fare." 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  63 

Admirable  economist!  excellent  philosopher! 
shrewd  assayer  of  human  nature !  what  wonder  that 
he  has  never  had  a  real  friendship  for  a  brother 
man,  never  a  true  passion  for  a  woman — aye!  that 
with  all  his  fine  gifts,  he  has  never  quite  succeeded 
in  fusing  Life  and  Art  in  the  terms  of  his  adored 
master,  Balzac! 

But  all  criticism  is  partial  at  best,  and  this  which 
I  have  just  written  is  no  exception.  I  suspect  that 
George  Moore's  cool  selfishness  and  light  o'  love 
fickleness  and  mobility  are  more  than  half  assumed, 
like  his  un-Irishism,  and  his  clamant  hatred  of  the 
Christian,  especially  the  Irish  Catholic,  religion, 
which  he  would  typify  by  his  friend,  the  Bishop  of 
Galway.  Of  one  thing  at  least  we  can  be  sure — 
he  is  too  much  of  the  artist  to  let  us  see  the  real 
George  Moore.  The  latter  is  a  nebulous  person, 
yet  I  fancy  he  could  make  himself  at  home,  if  need 
were,  at  Ballyglass  as  in  Paris.  .  .  . 

But  what  has  this  to  do  with  uThe  Lovers  of 
Orelay"?  Nothing,  i'  faith,  and  yet  it  was  of 
them  I  meant  to  write  and  not  of  Mr.  George 
Moore,  author.  Clearly  I  cannot  now  say  as  much 
as  I  intended  to  say  of  this,  the  wickedest  and  most 
delightful  chapter  in  the  "Memoirs."  But  not  to 
say  something  were  to  argue  a  literary  ineptitude 
in  oneself  which  I  should  hate  to  be  imputed  to  me. 

In  the  "Lovers  of  Orelay,"  then,  we  have  the 
pleasantest  and  least  sinful  bit  of  sin  and  sensual- 


64  ADVENTURES    IN 

ism  that  Mr.  Moore  has  ever  given  us.  In  the 
preface  to  the  "Memoirs"  he  accepts  as  true  the 
imputation  that  there  is  a  Messianic  strain  in  his 
work.  At  any  rate,  one  is  tempted  to  believe  that 
if  George  Moore  were  to  re-write  the  Beatitudes, 
his  very  first  would  be — 


"BLESSED  ARE  THEY  WHO  COME  BY  THEIR  DESIRE." 


That  was,  after  a  hundred  pages  or  so,  the  for 
tune  of  these  lovers  of  Orelay,  and  seeing  that  the 
strict  moralist  cannot  approve  either  the  tale  or  its 
termination,  one  dare  not  speak  of  the  rare  but 
dangerous  delight  it  affords  in  the  reading.  Three 
brief  quotations  will  suffice  to  show  Mr.  Moore's 
complete  mastery  of  the  difficult  art  of  suggestion. 


"Tell  a  woman  that  she  is  a  nymph  and  she  must 
not  expect  any  more  from  you  than  she  would  from 
a  faun,  that  all  you  know  is  the  joy  of  the  sunlight, 
that  you  have  no  dreams  beyond  the  worship  of 
the  perfect  circle  of  her  breast,  and  the  desire  to 
gather  grapes  for  her,  and  she  will  give  herself 
to  you,  unconscious  of  sin." 

"And  what  was  the  image  that  rose  up  in  my 
mind?  the  sensuous  gratification  of  the  image  of  a 
woman  bathing  at  the  edge  of  a  summer  wood — 
the  intoxication  of  the  odor  of  her  breasts." 

"You  spoke,  didn't  you,  of  going  for  a  drive?'* 

"We  were  speaking  of  happiness — but  if  you'd 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  65 

like  to  go  for  a  drive.  There's  no  happiness  like 
driving." 

"Isn't  there?" 

She  pinched  my  arm  and  with  a  choking  sensa 
tion  in  my  throat  I  asked  her  to  send  for  a  car 
riage. 

"The  room  will  look  better,"  Doris  said,  "when 
fires  have  been  lighted,  and  when  our  bags  are  un 
packed.  A  skirt  thrown  over  the  arm  of  a  chair 
furnishes  a  room." 

The  leisurely  yet  absorbing  progress  of  the  little 
love-plot  makes  every  reader  particips  criminis,  a 
lover  and  a  seducer.  Here,  as  always,  the  advan 
tage  is  overwhelmingly  with  Mr.  Moore,  since  he 
is  both  the  hero  and  the  narrator  of  the  story.  One 
is  half  inclined  to  hate  him  for  being  so  good  to 
himself.  Doris  indeed !  With  her  mane  of  rich 
gold  hair  growing  as  luxuriously  as  the  meadows  in 
June.  And  her  lovely  mouth,  weak  and  beautiful 
as  a  flower.  And  her  long  hands  curved  like  lilies. 
A  glutton  he  for  delights  for  which  there  is  noth 
ing  to  pay! 

If  Mr.  George  Moore  be  not  the  Perfect  Lover 
(as  I  have  ventured  to  hold,  in  spite  of  the  vast 
amount  of  literary  evidence  he  offers  us  to  the 
point),  he  is,  at  least,  in  view  of  this  exquisite  as 
signation,  the  Lover  of  Wondrous  Fortune.  For 
surely  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  men  to  gather 
such  roses  without  thorns,  to  have  such  pleasures 
without  pain  or  penalty,  and  to  taste  such  happiness 


66  ADVENTURES    IN 

without  remorse.  But  whether  the  tale  of  these 
lovers  of  Orelay  be  true  or  feigned,  it  is  set  forth 
with  such  delicate  art  and  enticement  that,  reading 
it  absorbedly,  one  comes  almost  to  forget  the  warn 
ing  of  his  Grace  of  Galway. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS  67 


/BSEN  wondered  why  the  best  thoughts 
are    given     to     the     biggest    black 
guards.    Perhaps  to  keep  down  pride 
in  the  clergy. 


68  ADVENTURES    IN 


BROTHER  ELIAS 

LEAVING  the  Grand  Central  Station,  the 
train  was  well  filled  with  passengers;  it 
stopped  to  take  on  more  at  I25th  street. 
Among  the  new  arrivals  I  noticed  a  pale  priestly 
appearing  man  whose  expression  of  mingled  humil 
ity  and  hardihood  thrilled  an  old  memory  in  my 
breast.  The  man  came  toward  me  slowly,  looking 
about  for  a  seat,  while  I  puzzled  over  something 
familiar  in  his  mien  and  gait.  He  threw  a  sheathed 
glance  at  me,  and  I  knew  that  falcon  eye,  little 
dimmed  by  the  flight  of  full  twenty-five  years.  With 
an  old  imperious  instinct  of  obedience  I  was  on  my 
feet  instantly,  offering  him  the  place  beside  me,  from 
which  I  hastily  removed  my  coat  and  newspapers. 
He  gravely  accepted  it,  looking  at  me  still  more 
sheathedly,  with  a  faint  indication  of  surprise  at 
my  promptitude.  But  he  did  not  recognize  me — 
ah!  I  might  well  be  sure  of  that;  and  L  turned  my 
face  toward  the  window  as  the  speed  of  the  train 
quickened,  saying  breathlessly  to  myself:  Brother 
Elias ! 

Yes,  it  was  full  twenty-five  years  since  I  had  seen 
him.     I  was  then  a  boy  of  ten,  and  it  was  that  boy 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  69 

who  now  identified  him — the  man  had  nothing  to 
do  with  it.  No  mistaking  the  eagle  eye,  still  bright, 
though  a  little  sunken  with  time;  the  high  pale  fore 
head  over  which  the  sparse  black  hair  had  turned 
to  gray;  the  bold  strong  curve  of  the  nose,  with 
the  whole  face,  suggesting  an  effigy  on  an  old  Roman 
coin;  and  above  all,  that  strange  mixture  of  defer 
ence  and  pride — the  priest  and  the  warrior  in  bat 
tle — which  impressed  me  as  a  child,  when  I  could 
not  have  given  it  a  name.  Yes,  it  was  Brother 
Elias.  As  our  train  sped  through  the  smiling  coun 
try  I  marvelled  at  the  chance  which  had  again 
brought  us  into  contact.  A  chance  of  which  he  was 
all  unconscious,  sitting  beside  me  with  veiled  glance 
and  the  instinctive  aloofness  of  the  priest. 

Elias  was  a  Christian  Brother,  that  is  to  say,  a 
member  of  a  religious  order  in  the  Catholic  Church 
which  makes  a  smaller  figure  to-day  than  formerly. 
The  Order  of  Christian  Brothers,  like  some  older 
and  similar  fraternities,  was  founded  with  a  view 
to  gratifying  the  common  man's  craving  for  the  life 
religious.  In  Catholic  countries  it  is  not  easy  to 
prevent  the  church  from  being  overcrowded  with 
ecclesiastics — one  cannot  see  the  altar  for  the 
priests!  This  is  notoriously  the  case  in  Italy  and 
Spain  and,  to  a  less  degree,  in  France  and  Ireland. 
Now  while  it  cannot  be  admitted  that  the  Lord 
would  call  too  many  to  His  service,  it  is  clear  that 
without  some  provision  for  the  overflow,  the  regu- 


70  ADVENTURES    IN 

lar  ministry  in  those  countries  would  be  swamped. 
Hence  the  Christian  Brothers,  which  in  a  sense  may 
be  called  a  "peasant  order,"  and  which  was  largely 
recruited  from  Ireland  where,  up  to  a  few  years 
ago,  (if  not  to-day)  religion  was  the  chief  industry 
and  the  overwhelming  concern  of  the  common  peo- 
pie. 

The  Church  took  the  strong  young  peasant  and 
made  a  lay  brother  of  him,  giving  peace  to  his  soul 
and  using  his  strength  in  the  manual  labors  of  the 
monastery.  She  took  his  apter,  better  educated  fel 
low  and  made  a  teacher  of  him.  She  endowed  both 
with  the  religious  character  that  they  coveted.  Eco 
nomically  it  would  have  been  wiser  perhaps  to  leave 
both  where  they  were,  but  this  consideration  never 
has  much  weight  in  a  Catholic  country.  Perhaps 
I  should  use  the  past  tense,  for  the  tendency  of  late 
years  has  been  to  reduce  the  Orders  and  keep  an  eye 
on  the  budget.  Of  this  tendency  the  Christian 
Brothers  are  an  example,  being  to-day,  as  I  have 
said,  far  less  important  than  they  were  a  brief  gen 
eration  ago. 

The  Order  was  perhaps  at  its  height  when,  a 
few  years  after  my  mother's  death,  my  elder  sisters 
placed  me  in  the  large  institution  over  which  Ellas 
ruled  as  Brother  Director.  It  was  in  a  crowded 
manufacturing  town  on  the  Hudson  river,  and  the 
place  was  half  asylum,  half  boarding  school.  There 
were  about  three  hundred  boys  under  the  charge  of 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  71 

the  Brothers,  as  I  judge  now;  the  majority  of  whom 
were  orphans  or  regular  boarders.  Also  there  was 
a  contingent  of  day-scholars  from  the  city  whom  we 
inmates  passionately  envied  each  night  that  the  gates 
closed  after  them.  The  distinction  between  or 
phans  and  boarders  was  that  the  city  or  county  paid 
something  for  the  former,  and  the  latter  (of  whom 
I  was  one)  were  paid  for  by  their  relations.  The 
tariff  was  higher  for  the  boarders,  of  course;  but 
we  took  our  meals  at  separate  tables  and  our  fare 
was  better  than  the  orphans',  though  nothing  too 
fine  at  that. 

There  were  twenty-five  or  thirty  Christian  Broth 
ers,  teachers  and  lay-brothers,  as  I  remember.  They 
were  mostly  a  stalwart  lot  of  men,  with  no  sort  of 
squeamishness  as  to  corporal  punishment  by  any 
handy  or  effective  method,  fist,  foot  or  ferule.  Wild 
and  unruly  as  was  that  horde  of  boys,  untrained  for 
the  most  part,  or  with  the  vicious  schooling  that 
the  streets  give  in  a  large  factory  town,  the  Brothers 
maintained  over  them  the  discipline  of  a  Roman 
camp.  With  the  strong  right  arm  they  did  it,  and 
though  the  memory  makes  me  wince,  I  am  not  pre 
pared  to  say  that  it  could  have  been  better  or  other 
wise  done — at  least  in  that  day  and  with  that  par 
ticular  brand  of  boy. 

Brother  Elias,  a  Frenchman  from  France  and  not 
a  Canuck  like  many  of  the  order,  was  of  an  ascetic, 
intellectual  type.  He  did  not  often  punish — there 


72  ADVENTURES    IN 

were  inferiors  to  relieve  him  of  that  function,  though 
I  do  not  think  it  was  especially  disagreeable  to  him. 
Generally  he  reserved  himself  for  grand  occasions 
of  chastisement  when  a  public,  sacrificial  example 
was  to  be  made  of  somebody.  At  such  times  his 
dignity  as  Brother  Director  lent  an  additional  sol 
emnity  to  the  affair,  and  the  punishment  took  place 
in  the  large  assembly  room.  Here  all  the  inmates, 
boarders  and  regulars  were  gathered  and  kept  in 
order  by  a  squad  of  the  Brothers,  while  Elias  with 
impassive  face  and  unsparing  arm  attended  to  the 
"example"  in  a  central  space.  Had  the  reverend 
Brother  been  stone  deaf,  he  could  not  have  paid  less 
heed  to  the  agonized  shrieks  and  prayers  of  his  vic 
tim  than  he  invariably  did  on  these  edifying  occa 
sions. 

One  of  these  punitive  incidents  I  recall  as  vividly 
as  if  it  was  yesterday. 

There  was  a  handsome  lad  named  Russell,  an 
orphan,  several  years  older  than  myself,  of  whom 
I  was  very  fond.  He  petted  and  protected  me — no 
small  thing  in  that  place  where  the  weaker  was  al 
ways  underneath — and  in  return  I  loved  him.  Rus 
sell  was  old  enough  to  work  in  the  shoe-factory 
connected  with  the  institution  and  which  may  have 
aided  to  support  it.  At  any  rate,  though  the  "shoe 
makers"  were  looked  after  sharply  enough,  they 
had  better  food  than  the  rest  of  the  regulars,  and 
enjoyed  certain  privileges. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  73 

Russell  hated  the  place  bitterly  and  often  talked 
to  me  in  the  big  dormitory  at  night,  where  my  cot 
was  near  his,  of  running  away.  The  thing  didn't 
seem  so  hard  to  manage,  for  the  gates  were  open 
during  the  day  or  until  the  day-scholars  went  home. 
But  I  hoped  he  wouldn't  try,  for  in  the  Brothers' 
eyes  that  was  the  Deadly  Sin,  the  worst  thing  a 
boy  could  do,  and  the  occasion  of  the  most  terrify 
ing  "examples"  in  the  Assembly  Room.  I  had  seen 
the  punishment  of  one  runaway,  a  scared-eyed  lad 
named  Gilligan,  shortly  after  my  coming  to  the 
place,  and  I  did  not  care  to  see  another.  So,  while 
I  admired  Russell's  courage,  I  told  him  he  would 
better  not,  and  out  of  my  selfish  love  for  him,  I 
hoped  he  wouldn't  get  the  chance. 

He  did  though,  very  soon  thereafter,  and  .was 
gone  a  week  before  they  caught  him.  I  heard  of 
his  capture  with  a  great  fear  and  a  childish  wish  to 
do  something  desperate  in  order  to  save  him. 

Russell,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  "shoe-maker,"  a 
bread-winner,  which  made  his  offense  doubly  bad, 
since  it  took  something  from  the  institution  and  re 
flected  on  its  character.  Moreover,  for  some  ob 
scure  reason,  Elias  disliked  the  handsome,  spirited 
lad. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  he  was  brought  back, 
the  Brother  Director  made  a  fearful  "example"  of 
him  before  the  largest  crowd  I  had  ever  seen  in 
the  Assembly  Room.  The  least  details  of  that  pain- 


74  ADVENTURES    IN 

ful  scene  are  as  vividly  before  my  eyes  now  as  then: 
the  blanched  and  tearful  faces  of  the  on-looking 
boys,  for  Russell  was  with  most  of  them  a  hero  and 
a  favorite;  the  grave,  hushed  manner  of  the  Broth 
ers  stationed  about  like  janizaries  to  keep  order; 
the  stern  impassiveness  of  Brother  Elias  as  in  the 
place  of  punishment  he  rehearsed  the  boy's  offense; 
and  lastly,  the  unflinching  courage  of  the  victim 
from  whose  set  lips  the  utmost  strength  and  sav 
agery  of  his  torturer  drew  but  one  smothered  cry. 
Elias  wielded  a  blue  and  supple  rawhide,  ribbed 
and  elastic,  easy  to  handle  and  a  terrible  punisher. 
He  cut  the  boy  to  ribbons,  in  the  zealous  desire  to 
make  him  beg  for  mercy  before  the  school;  but  this 
he  was  unable  to  do  and  to  this  extent  the  "ex 
ample"  was  a  failure.  It  was,  however,  a  perfect 
success  in  the  way  of  impressing  at  least  one  young 
witness  with  its  inhuman  cruelty  and  injustice. 

I  engaged  Brother  Elias  in  chat,  telling  him  I 
was  one  of  his  old  boys.  He  was  but  slightly 
moved  and  did  not  even  ask  my  name — there  had 
been  so  many! 

With  my  mind  full  of  the  burning  recollections 
set  forth  above,  I  led  him  to  the  subject  of  corporal 
punishment  and,  admitting  that  it  was  sometimes 
justifiable  in  a  ruder  day,  asked  him  if  it  had  not 
well  approved  itself  as  the  parent  of  worse  vices 
than  those  it  sought  to  cure. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  75 

Elias  looked  at  me  with  a  flash  of  the  old  fire. 
"You  have  made  a  strange  use  of  the  education 
we  gave  you,"  he  said.  "But  I  forget  .  .  . 
you  were  not  with  us  long !  On  the  contrary,  I 
see  nothing  to  blame  in  what  you  call  the  old  sys 
tem."  He  smiled  grimly.  "It  will  always  be  the 
new  system  where  I  have  anything  to  say."  Add 
ing  reflectively,  "But  I  am  becoming  an  old  man." 

Suddenly  he  broke  out:  "You  may  call  it  what 
hard  names  you  please,  but  it  was,  and  is,  needed 
to  get  the  devil  out  of  many  boys.  It  cured  them 
utterly,  or  at  least  saved  them  from  becoming  worse 
men,  enemies  of  society.  Above  all,  it  held  them 
to  the  Faith — those  who  have  weakened  or  fallen 
away  (with  a  glance  at  me)  had  perhaps  missed 
that  saving  discipline.  Without  it  there  would  have 
been  no  enforcing  the  salutary  rule  of  obedience. 
I  myself  have  obeyed  all  my  life,"  said  Brother 
Elias. 

I  could  not  but  feel  that  there  was  something 
austerely  grand  and  simple  in  his  manner  of  saying 
this.  I  thought  of  his  barren,  dreary,  devoted  life, 
empty  of  nearly  all  those  joys  which  console  or 
dinary  humanity,  and  lacking  the  supreme  conso 
lation  of  love.  Of  the  doleful  tale  of  years,  one 
as  like  another  as  the  beads  of  his  rosary,  passed 
in  either  inferno,  the  asylum  or  the  schoolroom. 
Of  the  blank  misery  of  such  a  life  wasted  in  a  verit 
able  bear-garden,  especially  to  this  man  in  whom 


76  ADVENTURES    IN 

there  was  a  touch  of  the  visionary  and  the  scholar. 
Of  the  strong  faith  which  had  urged  and  made  good 
his  great  renunciation.  And  though  I  marched  no 
longer  with  Brother  Elias  and  was,  as  he  would 
believe,  of  the  lost,  I  could  not  forbear  bowing  to 
him  in  silent  homage. 

Then  a  thought  came  to  me. 

"You  are  no  longer  Brother  Director  at  T ?" 

I  asked,  mentioning  the  institution  of  which  I  have 
spoken  above. 

"Oh  dear,  no,"  he  replied  calmly;  "I  have  not 
been  there  in  many  years.  We  must  go  wherever 
we  are  sent,"  he  said,  "so  that  one  may  not  count 
on  forming  ties." 

After  a  pause,  he  added  with  a  smile  in  which 
there  was  a  note  of  the  old  mingled  humility  and 
disdain: 

"And  I  am  not  now  a  Brother  Director,  nor  have 
I  been  for  a  long  time.  I  am  what  you  call  reduced 
to  the  ranks — a  private.  But,  believe  me,  I  am 
quite  content.  God's  work  is  to  be  done  in  every 
station.  And  I  have  long  since  learned  to  serve," 
said  Brother  Elias. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  77 


GUY  DE  MAUPASSANT 

THE  recent  publication,  in  French,  of  some 
posthumous  fragments  of  Guy  de  Maupas 
sant's  is  not  without  a  mournful  interest 
for  the  admirers  of  that  singularly  gifted  and  un 
fortunate  genius.  And  this  is  the  best  word  that 
can  be  said  for  the  enterprise  of  Maupassant's  edi 
tors  and  publishers.  Their  too  obvious  motive  is 
to  make  capital  out  of  the  morbid  curiosity  which 
the  fate  of  this  writer  has  evoked — a  curiosity  that 
seeks  to  pursue  him  beyond  the  grave.  The  edi 
tors  have  much  to  say  as  to  the  importance  of  dis 
closing  the  artistic  processes  of  so  great  a  writer. 
It  is  a  specious  plea,  but  the  true  lover  of  Mau 
passant  will  do  wisely  to  avoid  these  fragments, 
the  declared  purpose  of  which  is  to  show  him  the 
secrets  of  the  Master's  workshop. 

I  have  read  these  things  and  I  am  unfeignedly 
sorry  for  it.  One  who  wishes  to  love  his  mistress 
should  not  inquire  too  anxiously  into  the  details 
of  her  toilet.  The  artistic  motive  was  so  dominant 
in  Maupassant's  work — the  sole  god  indeed  of  his 
idolatry — that  one  might  conceive  such  a  publica 
tion  inflicting  upon  him  the  pangs  of  a  second  death. 


78  ADVENTURES    IN 

And  all  that  we  should  know  of  Maupassant's 
"artistic  processes"  he  has  himself  told  us  in  the 
famous  preface  to  Pierre  et  Jean,  written  at  the 
height  of  his  powers.  It  may  be  worth  while  to  re 
call  briefly  the  guiding  rules  of  Maupassant's  fine 
art,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  regard  good  writing 
as  an  easeful  occupation. 

People  who  read  Maupassant  in  the  current  trans 
lations  usually  think  of  him  as  a  man  who  had  a  per 
verted  talent  for  writing  indecent  stories  and  whose 
own  personal  immoralities  brought  upon  him  a 
judgment  in  the  shape  of  paresis  and  an  untimely 
death.  The  latter  part  of  this  view  is  probably  well 
founded,  though  the  physiologist  might  have  some 
thing  to  say  in  the  way  of  rebuttal  or,  at  least, 
qualification.  The  matter  of  heredity  would  have 
to  be  taken  into  account;  it  being  clear  that  a  man 
is  often  punished  in  his  venial  sins  for  the  graver 
transgressions  of  an  ancestor  who  had  dodged  the 
reckoning  in  his  own  person. 

Maupassant,  it  must  be  allowed,  was  an  immoral 
man  in  his  relations  with  women — perhaps  not 
more  so  than  many  a  man  who  leaves  the  penalty 
of  his  vices  to  a  future  generation. 

As  an  artist,  however,  Maupassant  has  the  high 
est  claims  to  our  respect,  and  we  must  combat  the 
ignorant  English  idea  that  he  was  merely  a  writer  of 
indecent  stories.  Whatever  we  may  think  of  his 
choice  of  subjects,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  dispute 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  79 

his  literary  pre-eminence.  For  example,  we  are 
always  comparing  the  adjective  "great,"  as  between 
Mr.  Kipling  and  some  one  else,  usually  to  some  one 
else's  disparagement.  Well,  Maupassant  was  nearly 
always  a  greater  artist  than  Kipling,  though  his 
view  of  life  was  neither  so  many-sided  nor  so  whole 
some  as  the  Englishman's.  It  must  in  truth  be  ad 
mitted  that,  literary  ethics  apart,  the  body  of  Mau 
passant's  work  is  marked  by  the  note  of  what  we 
are  now  calling  degeneracy.  This,  however,  does 
not  impair  its  value  as  a  human  document,  or  as  a 
piece  of  consummate  artistry.  Nothing  could  more 
sharply  accentuate  the  note  of  degeneracy  in  Mau 
passant's  work  than  the  little  story  of  "Paul's  Mis 
tress"  (La  Femme  de  Paul)  in  the  volume — un 
translated,  so  far  as  I  know — bearing  the  title  La 
Malson  Tellier.*  Yet,  revolting  as  is  the  motif  of 
the  story,  so  powerfully  and  graphically  is  it  told, 
so  terribly  convincing  the  picture  of  moral  infamy 
it  draws,  that  La  Femme  de  Paul  is  raised  by  sheer 
art  to  the  dignity  of  a  classic.  So  at  the  end  its 
unspeakable  revelation  offends  the  literary  appre 
ciation  no  more  than  does  Horace's  frankness  in 
charging  his  old  mistress  with  libido  equarum.  Now 
as  the  school-men  have  placed  the  charming  lines 
to  Lydia  in  the  hands  of  the  "ingenuous  youth"  of 
all  nations,  it  would  seem  that,  in  the  last  result, 

*  This  was  first  written  about  1895.    There  have  been  many  trans 
lations  since. 


8o  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  question  of  art  is  superior  to  the  question  of 
morals. 

Few  English  writers  have  satisfied  the  demands 
of  the  artistic  conscience  as  rigorously  as  did  Mau 
passant.  In  the  preface  to  Pierre  et  Jean,  already 
cited,  he  says:  "After  so  many  masters  of  nature  so 
varied,  of  genius  so  manifold,  what  remains  to  do, 
which  has  not  been  done,  what  remains  to  say, 
which  has  not  been  said?  Who  can  boast,  among 
us,  of  having  written  a  page,  a  phrase,  which  is  not 
already,  almost  the  same,  to  be  found  elsewhere?" 
Now  the  man  who  seeks  only  to  amuse  his  public, 
continues  Maupassant,  by  means  already  known  and 
familiar,  writes  with  confidence,  his  work  being  in 
tended  for  the  ignorant  and  idle  crowd.  But — 
and  here  is  a  truth,  oh  ye  professors  of  literature ! — 
those  upon  whom  weigh  all  the  past  cycles  of  litera 
ture,  those  whom  nothing  satisfies,  whom  everything 
disgusts,  because  they  dream  better,  to  whom  every 
thing  seems  already  deflowered,  whose  work  gives 
them  always  the  impression  of  a  labor  useless  and 
common — they  arrive  at  length  to  judge  the  literary 
art  as  a  thing  unseizable  and  mysterious,  which  even 
the  greatest  masters  have  scarcely  unveiled.  What 
remains  then,  he  asks,  for  us  who  are  simply  con 
scientious  and  persevering  workers?  Why,  we 
can  maintain  our  struggle  against  invincible  dis 
couragement  only  by  continuous  effort — par  la  con- 
tinmte  de  I' e fort. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  81 

Let  the  young  English  literary  aspirant  read  the 
story  of  Maupassant's  seven  years'  apprenticeship 
to  Flaubert — it  will  be  worth  more  to  him  than  the 
learned  lucubrations  of  Prof.  Barrett  Wendell  or 
many  volumes  of  Kipling.  "I  know  not,"  said  the 
master  to  his  disciple,  at  their  first  meeting, 
"whether  you  have  talent.  What  you  have  shown 
me  proves  a  certain  intelligence.  But  do  not  forget 
this,  young  man,  that  genius,  according  to  Buffon,  is 
only  a  long  patience."  From  the  author  of 
Madame  Bovary,  Maupassant  derived  the  chief 
canon  of  his  artistic  faith  and  practice,  which  may 
profitably  be  set  down  here : 

"Whatever  may  be  the  thing  one  wishes  to  say, 
there  is  only  one  phrase  to  express  it,  only  one  verb 
to  animate  it,  and  only  one  adjective  to  qualify  it. 
One  must  seek  then  until  one  finds  this  phrase,  this 
verb  and  this  adjective;  and  one  must  never  be  con 
tent  with  less,  never  have  recourse  to  even  happy 
frauds  (supercheries)  or  clowneries  of  language,  in 
order  to  avoid  the  difficulty." 

The  literal  observance  of  this  rule  made  a  greater 
artist  of  the  disciple  than  of  the  master.  It  gave 
Maupassant  an  almost  unique  distinction  in  an 
epoch  and  a  nation  peculiarly  fertile  in  great  wri 
ters.  He  was,  and  is,  the  unchallenged  master  of  the 
conte  or  short  story.  In  English  we  have  no  one  to 
compare  with  him,  except  Edgar  Poe  and  Rudyard 
Kipling,  both  of  whom  he  outclasses  by  virtue  of 


82  ADVENTURES    IN 

pure  artistry.  The  Frenchman  owes  his  superior 
ity  not  merely  to  the  perfection  of  the  phrase,  but 
to  the  variety  of  his  invention  and  his  abnormal 
power  of  making  the  reader  partake  of  his  impres 
sions.  Poe  studiously  cultivated  the  horrible,  but 
in  tales  of  this  order  he  achieved  an  unquestioned 
artistic  success  only  in  the  Cask  of  Amontillado.  I 
should  like  to  see  what  Maupassant  would  have 
done  with  this  story,  had  it  come  fresh  to  his  hand. 
Yet  he  has  a  score  of  such,  if  not  so  dramatic  in 
conception  as  Poe's  masterpiece,  certainly  less  pecca 
ble  in  other  artistic  respects.  L' Apparition  is  the 
most  convincing  ghost  story  ever  written;  Corsican 
revenge  has  never  been  depicted  so  briefly  and  pow 
erfully  as  in  his  tale  of  the  old  woman's  vendetta ; 
Pierre  et  Jean  is  a  triumph  of  art  applied  to  the 
psychology  of  moral  guilt.  La  Petite  Roque  is  as 
terribly  distinctive  a  success — we  can  easily  im 
agine  how  Poe's  twiddling  detective  instinct  would 
have  spoiled  these  stories  for  him;  Allouma  is  the 
last  word  of  a  sensualism  that  is  as  flagrantly  frank 
as  it  is  splendidly  poetical;  L' Heritage,  in  its  po 
litely  suppressed  irony  and  demure  analysis  of  mo 
tive,  rivals  Balzac's  veritistic  etching  of  Parisian 
manners. 

But  what  shall  I  say  of  Bel-Ami,  the  perfect  pink 
of  cynical  scoundrelism,  with  the  profoundly  im 
moral,  yet  strictly  true,  lesson  of  the  wicked  hero's 
success?  Oh,  Sandford  and  Merton!  what  a  con- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  83 

trast  is  here  to  the  smug  hypocrisy  of  the  British 
Philistia !  The  man  who  wrote  this  book  is  surely 
damned — but  if  you  do  not  admire  it,  pudent  read 
er,  you  shall  not  escape  artistic  damnation.  Talk  of 
the  satire  of  "Vanity  Fair" — a  book  without  a  man 
in  it!  Look,  I  pray  you,  at  the  victorious  Monsieur 
Georges  Duroy — pardon!  I  should  say,  Du  Roy — 
see  how  this  plenary  profligate  makes  his  smiling 
way;  conquering  and  deserting  women  at  every 
turn;  putting  always  money  in  his  purse;  guilty  of 
everything  except  a  blush  of  shame  or  a  pang  of 
remorse.  What  "green  probationers  in  mischief" 
he  makes  your  stock  literary  villains  appear!  The 
fellow  is  irresistible,  too;  has  such  an  air  that  the 
more  women  he  conquers,  the  more  pursue  him, 
ladies  of  approved  and  matronly  virtue  as  well  as 
flaneuses  of  the  pave.  How  grandly  he  goes  on 
from  success  to  success,  until  the  church  itself  puts 
the  capstone  on  his  triumphal  career  and  le  beau 
monde  of  Paris  acclaims  his  crowning  rascality! 

If  the  true  victory  of  the  artist  be  to  have  made 
himself  unforgettable  in  his  work,  then  we  may  well 
pause  at  the  name  of  De  Maupassant.  The  copy  of 
life  which  he  has  given  us  is  one  of  unique  interest, 
— terrible,  fascinating,  yet  repellent.  No  writer 
moves  us  to  keener  curiosity  regarding  his  mental 
processes  or  the  formative  influences  which  went  to 
the  making  of  his  style  and  talent.  For  his  rare 
and  sinister  distinction  he  paid,  as  we  know,  a  fear- 


84  ADVENTURES    IN 

ful  price — the  man  sacrificed  himself  to  the  artist. 
This  would  have  appeared  to  Maupassant  a  per 
fectly  logical  act,  involving  neither  heroism  nor  mad 
ness,  since  he  held  to  no  commandments  save  those 
of  Art. 

The  artistic  value  of  that  poignant  sacrifice,  the 
literary  value  of  that  deeply  etched  transcript  of 
life,  remains  and  will  remain.  Tolstoy  characterizes 
Maupassant  as  the  most  powerful  of  modern  French 
writers  of  fiction.  There  is,  by  the  way,  between 
these  two  masters,  otherwise  so  strongly  contrasted, 
no  slight  kinship  in  point  of  artistic  methods.  Mau 
passant  is  perhaps  the  only  Frenchman  who  could 
conceivably  have  written  Ivan  Ilytch,  that  most  piti 
less  yet  authentic  study  of  disease  and  death.  Per 
haps,  had  Maupassant  lived  to  his  full  maturity — 
we  must  not  forget  that  he  died  a  young  man — he 
would  have  come,  like  Tolstoy,  to  see  life  with  a 
less  morbid  and  troubled  vision.  He  perished  to 
the  strains  of  that  Kreutzer  Sonata  which  the  Rus 
sian  has  long  survived  and  which  it  is  now  difficult 
to  associate  with  his  name. 

I  have  cited  from  memory  only  a  few  of  the  more 
famous  contes — there  are  twenty-five  volumes  of 
them,  not  including  the  novels  and  other  literary 
efforts.  An  immense  quantity  of  the  most  strenu 
ously  artistic  production;  nothing  bad  or  inept,  at 
least  in  the  English  degree,  shall  you  find  in  all  these 
books.  Maupassant  burned  the  essays  made  during 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  85 

his  long  apprenticeship  to  Flaubert.  The  French 
people  have  a  rigorous  artistic  sense  and  do  not 
take  kindly  to  the  English  practice  of  collecting  the 
first  amateurish  effusions  of  their  authors:  they  wait 
until  the  bird  has  learned  to  sing. 

If  the  fruits  of  Maupassant's  devotion  to  his  be 
loved  art  were  less  real  and  apparent,  one  might 
take  more  seriously  the  legend  that  imputes  to  him 
an  exclusive  cult  of  lubricity.  The  sins  of  the  artist 
are  always  exaggerated.  In  the  case  of  Maupas 
sant,  exaggeration  was  the  easier  that  the  artist 
belonged  to  a  race  which  is  remarkable  neither  for 
continence  nor  discretion.  It  is  true  he  confessed 
that  "women  were  his  only  vice" ;  but,  mindful  of 
his  thirty  volumes,  many  of  them  masterpieces,  and 
his  premature  death,  we  can  allow  him  a  larger 
measure  of  charity  than  he  claims.  This  much  is 
certain — Maupassant  was  not  his  own  most  cele 
brated  hero,  as  Byron  liked  to  have  people  think 
he  was  his  own  Don  Juan.  Perhaps  the  creator  of 
Georges  Duroy  would  have  relished  the  role  him 
self — if  there  were  not  books  to  write  and,  espe 
cially,  if  Flaubert  had  not  laid  on  him  so  inflexible 
a  rule  of  art!  I  suspect  that  the  most  tragic  phase 
of  Maupassant's  life-tragedy  consists  in  the  fearful 
penalty  he  paid  for  an  indulgence  which  is  not  so 
unusual  as  the  world  tries  to  make  itself  believe. 


88  ADVENTURES   IN 

Road  and  the  Police  waking  in  my  heart  an  exquisite 
thrill  of  boyhood  (through  them  I  first  felt  the 
power  of  Art),  would  alone  have  certified  to  me  the 
Adventures  of  Claude  Duval,  with  the  accompany 
ing  and  more  or  less  related  histories  of  Dick  Tur- 
pin,  Tom  King,  and  Sixteen-String  Jack.  The  sight 
of  Aladdin's  Lamp  or  the  Slaves  of  the  Ring  could 
not  have  moved  me  more — nay,  not  so  much,  for 
Hounslow  Heath  laid  a  stronger  toil  upon  my  young 
fancy  than  any  scene  of  Arabian  enchantment:  I 
was,  and  ever  have  remained,  a  child  of  the  Occi 
dent. 

Of  Life  and  Literature  I  knew  nothing  when  I 
brought  a  boy's  mind  to  these  books — the  dearer, 
too,  that  they  were  forbidden  and  had  to  be  tasted 
with  fear  and  precaution,  sometimes  by  a  furtive 
candle  in  my  little  room;  or,  as  Tom  Pinch  sought 
to  master  the  violin  at  Pecksniff's,  under  the  bed 
clothes;  or  with  desperate  hardihood,  betwixt  the 
covers  of  a  school  book,  in  full  family  circle  about 
the  evening  lamp.  Heaven,  what  tremors  and  pal 
pitations,  what  cold  sweats  and  hot  flushes,  when 
the  paternal  Eye  was  bent  too  curiously  upon  me, 
and  the  paternal  Voice  interrogated  me  concerning 
my  task!  What  hair-breadth  'scapes!  what  unlocked 
for  deliverances  from  imminent  peril  and  detection ! 
Ah!  the  child  is  father  to  the  man  indeed,  for  my 
mind  misgives  me  that,  early  and  late,  I  have  so 
purchased  my  dearest  joys. 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  89 

I  have  just  said  that  I  knew  nothing  of  Life  and 
Literature  when  these  picturesque  old  chapbooks, 
with  their  deadly  designs  of  prison  and  gibbet,  fell 
into  my  young  hands.  Truly  I  may  add  that  Life 
and  Literature,  in  such  small  measure  as  I  have  since 
come  to  know  them,  have  stamped  upon  my  mind 
no  impressions  more  vivid  and  enduring.  Taking 
up  one  book  from  the  lot,  I  hold  it  in  hands  that 
tremble  a  little,  wishing  and  yet  fearing  to  turn  the 
page  and  read. 

The  spell  will  not  be  there,  I  say  to  myself,  and 
the  Boy  I  once  knew  alone  has  rights  in  this  province 
— no  trespassing,  sir !  I  am  still  debating  the  ques 
tion  (as  nice  a  one  as  you  shall  propose  to  your 
self),  always  gazing  at  the  quaint  old  novel  with  its 
pictured  legends,  appropriate  foliage  of  Tyburn 
Tree,  but  not  turning  a  leaf,  when  an  eager  shrill 
young  voice  seems  to  speak  to  me  from  its  pages 
out  of  the  Past.  .  .  . 

Yes,  they're  the  very  books.  I  guess  I  ought  to 
know — I  had  over  twenty  of  'em  hidden  away  from 
Dad  in  an  old  box  in  my  room.  Printed  in  London, 
they  was,  for  it  said  Price  One  Shilling  on  the  cover. 
That  meant  twenty-five  cents  of  our  money,  a  whole 
lot  to  me.  I  was  quite  reckless  in  raising  the 
price,  however  (as  somebody  has  always  been  for 
anything  he  wanted  badly) .  I  don't  remember  now 
how  I  got  it  all — over  twenty  books  cost  a  heap. 


9o  ADVENTURES    IN 

Mother  helped  me  a  lot,  I  expect.  She  didn't  care, 
but  jiminy!  if  Dad  had  ever  found  them!  He  used 
to  burn  up  everything  that  looked  like  a  Beadle's 
Dime  and  I  never  could  keep  a  full  set  of  Dead- 
wood  Dick.  Said  he  never  read  a  novel  in  his  life, 
which  Ma  said  was  the  reason  I  felt  that  I  had 
to  read  so  many. 

I  read  a  heap  of  'em,  you  bet.  Some  boys  at 
my  Dad's  school  (he  was  a  teacher,  which  naturally 
set  him  against  novels  or  anything  good  to  read) 
used  to  pay  me  to  tell  stories  out  of  them.  I  liked 
to  tell  the  Claude  Duval  stories  the  best,  but  it  took 
an  awful  long  while  'cause  I  couldn't  keep  right  at 
it,  o'  course.  But  Dad  didn't  really  bother  me 
much — he  was  an  absent-minded  sort  of  man,  even 
though  he  had  never  read  any  novels  about  Injuns 
an'  highwaymen  and  knew  all  about  books  with  fig 
ures  and  diagrams  in  them  that  I  knew  I  should 
never  learn  to  draw,  let  alone  understand. 

Why,  say,  there  was  a  boy  by  the  name  of  Jim 
Rabbitt,  the  grocer's  son,  with  his  pockets  always 
full  of  spending  money,  who  made  a  contract  with 
me  to  tell  him  all  the  Claude  Duval  stories  I  had 
read,  and  kept  his  end  of  it  faithful.  It  took  about 
three  months,  for  Jim's  father  was  anxious  for  him 
to  get  along  in  his  studies,  and  Dad  looked  after 
him  particular.  Still,  Dad  was  that  absent-minded 
he  never  got  on  to  the  trick  we  was  playing.  We 
made  believe  to  be  doing  examples  out  of  Robinson's 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  91 

'rithmetic  while  I  would  be  pumping  the  Claude  Du- 
val  stuff  into  Jim.  When  Dad  would  come  near  our 
desk  I  would  sing  out  to  Jim  from  the  Arithmetic 
— 10 — 4 — 1 6 — 8 — ,  being  the  top  line  of  some  com 
pound  numbers  to  add,  and  Jim  would  take  them 
down  on  his  slate.  Then  Dad  would  pat  us  on  the 
back  and  walk  away,  quite  satisfied.  I  wasn't  al 
ways  quite  satisfied  myself,  but  I  liked  to  show  off 
my  stories  and  Jim  could  give  me  more  money  than 
ever  I  could  get  any  other  way.  .  .  . 

You  see  Claude  Duval  was  my  favorite  hero, 
'cause  he  was  so  grand  and  handsome  and  wore  a 
three-cornered  hat  and  a  fancy  coat  with  ruffles  at 
the  wrist,  and  a  sword  at  his  side  and  pistols  in 
his  pockets.  He  looked  like  a  regular  nobleman, 
sure,  and  the  ladies  were  all  sweet  on  him,  but  he 
had  no  time  for  that  sort  of  truck,  being  so  busy 
rescuing  imprisoned  heiresses  and  punishing  villains, 
and  robbing  from  the  rich  to  give  to  the  poor.  My! 
what  bully  times  they  had,  Claude  and  Dick  Turpin 
and  Sixteen-String  Jack,  and  the  other  fellows,  rid 
ing  around  the  country,  or  hovering  in  the  borders 
of  Epping  Forest;  making  coaches  stand  and  deliver, 
scaring  guards  and  postilyuns  half  to  death,  while 
the  rich  passengers  tried  to  hide  their  watches,  rings 
and  money  and  the  lovely  ladies  in  tears  somehow 
couldn't  keep  their  eyes  off  Claude;  stopping  at  the 
finest  inns,  calling  the  terrified  landlord  "sirrah," 
and  ordering  him  to  bring  the  best  in  the  house 


92  ADVENTURES    IN 

(would  he?  oh,  I  guess  rather!);  always  being 
tracked  by  the  police  and  always  giving  them  the 
slip  just  in  time ;  getting  more  swag  than  they  could 
carry  in  summer,  and  in  winter  spending  it  with  the 
loveliest  ladies  in  London — maybe  that  wasn't  be 
ing  something  like  a  Knight  of  the  Road! 

Claude  used  to  play  off  being  a  real  Count  in 
London  and  had  pages  and  flunkies  hisself  and  went 
around  with  the  swells  of  the  Court  and  was  made 
love  to  by  Duchesses  and  Marchionesses  and  de 
fended  poor  and  oppressed  and  beeyutiful  ladies 
against  the  best  of  them.  But  Adele  was  the  only 
one  he  ever  loved — maybe  I  didn't  cry  with  her 
when  at  last  he  was  betrayed  and  brought  to  Ty 
burn  Tree !  Even  Jim  Rabbitt,  who  wanted  me  to 
skip  everything  'cept  the  robbings  and  shootings, 
looked  kind  of  sad  then  and  purty  near  forgot  to 
sing  out  10 — 4 — 1 6 — 8  when  Dad  came  behind  us. 

I  liked  to  tell  about  Dick  Turpln,  too,  with  his 
Bonny  Black  Bess  (O  Romance,  show  me  such  an 
other  pair  as  these!).  Say,  there  wasn't  her  match 
in  England  for  beauty  and  speed.  Black  every  inch 
of  her  and  fleet  as  the  wind.  When  the  coachies 
caught  sight  of  her,  they  just  hollered,  "O  Lord! 
It's  Dick  Turpin  and  his  Bonny  Black  Bess,"  and 
told  everybody  they'd  better  fork  over  quiet  and 
peaceful.  But,  say,  did  you  ever  hear  of  anything 
like  that  ride  to  York — one  hundred  and  fifty  miles, 
without  stopping  once,  to  save  her  master  and  then 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  93 

dropped  dead  as  he  cleared  hisself  from  the  stirrups. 
There  was  a  picture  in  my  book  showing  the  gal 
lant  steed  stretched  lifeless  in  the  road,  with  Dick 
Turpin  bending  sorrowful-like  over  her.  Oh,  my 
Bonny  Black  Bess!  (I  have  lived  to  see  many  a 
famous  picture  by  some  of  the  world's  great  artists, 
but  none  that  pierced  my  heart  with  such  sorrow 
as  that  old  wood-cut  in  the  story  of  Dick  Turpin.) 

Well,  as  you  might  expect,  Turpin's  heart  broke 
with  the  loss  of  his  Bonnie  Black  Bess,  and  what 
with  the  big  reward,  I  forget  how  many  pounds,  on 
his  head,  and  people  not  fearing  him  so  much,  it 
didn't  take  long  to  fetch  him  to  Tyburn  Tree.  In 
fact,  to  that  queer  old  tree  they  all  came  sooner  or 
later,  escorted  by  the  rabble  of  London  and  with 
lovely  ladies  weeping  and  carrying  on  as  had  helped 
to  bring  them  there. 

After  Claude  Duval  and  Dick  Turpin,  I  guess 
Jack  Sheppard  was  my  favorite  hero.  But  he  didn't 
come  in  those  long  novels  with  the  handcuffs  strung 
around  the  cover.  His  was  a  smaller  book  with  a 
colored  picture  on  the  outside  showing  Jonathan 
Wilde  in  a  red  coat  and  a  cocked  hat  and  a  feero- 
cious  sneer,  looking  through  the  bars  of  a  cell  at 
Jack  Sheppard.  Oh,  how  I  hated  that  Jonathan 
Wilde,  and  how  I  loved  Blueskin  for  cutting  his 
throat,  though  he  didn't  make  a  perfect  job  of  it! 

Say,  do  you  know  that  Jack  Sheppard  could  open 
the  heaviest  lock  in  Newgate  with  nothing  but  a 


94  ADVENTURES    IN 

rusty  nail?  Do  you  know  that  he  escaped  again 
and  again  and  that  the  only  way  that  they  could 
keep  him,  and  him  only  a  boy,  was  to  chain  him 
down  to  the  floor  with  two  hundred  weight  of  iron? 
But  even  then  Jack  got  clear  somehow  and  baffled 
Jonathan  Wilde  the  thief-taker,  who  was  always 
pursooing  him.  And  I  guess  that  only  for  those 
lovely  London  ladies  Jack  would  never  in  his  turn 
have  come  to  Tyburn  Tree.  Somehow  they  figured 
in  the  finish  of  every  one  of  my  heroes.  Why  them 
lovely  ladies  should  have  brought  such  bad  luck 
to  the  Knights  of  the  Road,  I  don't  know,  but  that's 
the  way  the  story  always  ends.  If  ever  Jim  Rab- 
bitt  and  me  grows  up  to  be  Highwaymen  (he  hates 
the  grocery  business)  we've  made  up  our  minds  to 
steer  clear  of  lovely  ladies. 

The  young  voice  stops  and  at  the  same  instant  I 
end  the  debate  above  referred  to  by  deciding  not 
to  read  again  in  the  Boy's  book  of  enchantment. 
The  risk,  I  feel,  is  too  great.  So  I  put  the  old  chap- 
book  back  in  its  place,  to  the  manifest  disappoint 
ment  of  the  dealer,  and  leave  the  shop  with  the 
hesitant  step  of  a  man  in  a  day-dream ;  attended  and 
escorted  by  a  visionary  cavalcade  of  Knights  of 
the  Road,  among  whom  I  readily  identify  and  ex 
change  familiar  greeting  with  Claude  Duval,  Jack 
Sheppard,  Dick  Turpin,  Tom  King  and  Sixteen- 
String  Jack. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  95 

That  night  at  home  I  take  down  my  Macaulay 
(a  choice  that  maturity  enforces  on  me)  and  read 
under  the  head  of  "State  of  England  in  1685"  : 

"Whatever  might  be  the  way  in  which  a  journey 
was  performed,  the  travellers,  unless  they  were  nu 
merous  and  well-armed,  ran  considerable  risk  of  be 
ing  stabbed  and  plundered.  The  mounted  highway 
man,  a  marauder  known  to  our  generation  only 
from  books,  was  to  be  found  on  every  main  road. 
The  waste  tracts  which  lay  on  the  great  routes  near 
London  were  especially  haunted  by  plunderers  of 
this  class.  Hounslow  Heath,  on  the  Great  Western 
Road,  and  Finchley  Common,  on  the  Great  North 
ern  Road,  were  perhaps  the  most  celebrated  of 
these  spots.  ...  It  was  necessary  to  the  suc 
cess  and  even  to  the  safety  of  the  highwayman 
that  he  should  be  a  bold  and  skilful  rider  and  that 
his  manner  and  appearance  should  be  such  as  suited 
the  master  of  a  fine  horse.  He  therefore  held  an 
aristocratical  position  in  the  community  of  thieves, 
appeared  at  fashionable  coffee  houses  and  gaming 
houses,  and  betted  with  men  of  quality  on  the  race 
ground.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  was  a  man  of  good 
family  and  education.  ...  It  was  related  how 
Claude  Duval,  the  French  page  of  the  Duke  of 
Richmond,  took  the  road,  became  captain  of  a  for 
midable  gang,  and  had  the  honor  to  be  named  first 
in  a  royal  proclamation  against  notorious  offenders; 
how  at  the  head  of  his  troop  he  stopped  a  lady's 
coach  in  which  there  was  a  booty  of  four  hundred 
pounds;  how  he  took  only  one  hundred  and  suffered 
the  fair  owner  to  ransom  the  rest  by  dancing  a 
coranto  with  him  on  the  heath;  how  his  vivacious 


94  ADVENTURES    IN 

rusty  nail?  Do  you  know  that  he  escaped  again 
and  again  and  that  the  only  way  that  they  could 
keep  him,  and  him  only  a  boy,  was  to  chain  him 
down  to  the  floor  with  two  hundred  weight  of  iron? 
But  even  then  Jack  got  clear  somehow  and  baffled 
Jonathan  Wilde  the  thief-taker,  who  was  always 
pursooing  him.  And  I  guess  that  only  for  those 
lovely  London  ladies  Jack  would  never  in  his  turn 
have  come  to  Tyburn  Tree.  Somehow  they  figured 
in  the  finish  of  every  one  of  my  heroes.  Why  them 
lovely  ladies  should  have  brought  such  bad  luck 
to  the  Knights  of  the  Road,  I  don't  know,  but  that's 
the  way  the  story  always  ends.  If  ever  Jim  Rab- 
bitt  and  me  grows  up  to  be  Highwaymen  (he  hates 
the  grocery  business)  we've  made  up  our  minds  to 
steer  clear  of  lovely  ladies. 

The  young  voice  stops  and  at  the  same  instant  I 
end  the  debate  above  referred  to  by  deciding  not 
to  read  again  in  the  Boy's  book  of  enchantment. 
The  risk,  I  feel,  is  too  great.  So  I  put  the  old  chap- 
book  back  in  its  place,  to  the  manifest  disappoint 
ment  of  the  dealer,  and  leave  the  shop  with  the 
hesitant  step  of  a  man  in  a  day-dream;  attended  and 
escorted  by  a  visionary  cavalcade  of  Knights  of 
the  Road,  among  whom  I  readily  identify  and  ex 
change  familiar  greeting  with  Claude  Duval,  Jack 
Sheppard,  Dick  Turpin,  Tom  King  and  Sixteen- 
String  Jack. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  95 

That  night  at  home  I  take  down  my  Macaulay 
(a  choice  that  maturity  enforces  on  me)  and  read 
under  the  head  of  "State  of  England  in  1685"  : 

"Whatever  might  be  the  way  in  which  a  journey 
was  performed,  the  travellers,  unless  they  were  nu 
merous  and  well-armed,  ran  considerable  risk  of  be 
ing  stabbed  and  plundered.  The  mounted  highway 
man,  a  marauder  known  to  our  generation  only 
from  books,  was  to  be  found  on  every  main  road. 
The  waste  tracts  which  lay  on  the  great  routes  near 
London  were  especially  haunted  by  plunderers  of 
this  class.  Hounslow  Heath,  on  the  Great  Western 
Road,  and  Finchley  Common,  on  the  Great  North 
ern  Road,  were  perhaps  the  most  celebrated  of 
these  spots.  ...  It  was  necessary  to  the  suc 
cess  and  even  to  the  safety  of  the  highwayman 
that  he  should  be  a  bold  and  skilful  rider  and  that 
his  manner  and  appearance  should  be  such  as  suited 
the  master  of  a  fine  horse.  He  therefore  held  an 
aristocratical  position  in  the  community  of  thieves, 
appeared  at  fashionable  coffee  houses  and  gaming 
houses,  and  betted  with  men  of  quality  on  the  race 
ground.  Sometimes,  indeed,  he  was  a  man  of  good 
family  and  education.  ...  It  was  related  how 
Claude  Duval,  the  French  page  of  the  Duke  of 
Richmond,  took  the  road,  became  captain  of  a  for 
midable  gang,  and  had  the  honor  to  be  named  first 
in  a  royal  proclamation  against  notorious  offenders; 
how  at  the  head  of  his  troop  he  stopped  a  lady's 
coach  in  which  there  was  a  booty  of  four  hundred 
pounds;  how  he  took  only  one  hundred  and  suffered 
the  fair  owner  to  ransom  the  rest  by  dancing  a 
coranto  with  him  on  the  heath;  how  his  vivacious 


96  ADVENTURES    IN 

gallantry  stole  away  the  hearts  of  the  women; 
how  his  dexterity  at  sword  and  pistol  made  him  a 
terror  to  all  men;  how  at  length  in  the  year  1670, 
he  was  seized  when  overcome  by  wine;  how  dames 
of  high  rank  visited  him  in  prison  and  with  tears 
interceded  for  his  life;  how  the  King  would  have 
granted  a  pardon  but  for  the  interference  of  Judge 
Morton,  the  terror  of  highwaymen,  who  threatened 
to  resign  his  office  unless  the  law  were  carried  into 
full  effect;  and  how,  after  the  execution,  the  corpse 
lay  in  state  with  all  the  pomp  of  scutcheons,  wax 
lights,  black  hangings  and  mutes,  till  the  same  cruel 
judge  who  had  intercepted  the  mercy  of  the  crown, 
sent  officers  to  disturb  the  obsequies." 

So  the  vivacious  and  not  unromantic  Macaulay. 
But,  O  Memory!  ever  faithful  to  the  earliest  dawn- 
ings  of  Romance,  ever  returning  with  unsated  appe 
tite  to  the  first  draught  of  enchantment,  thou  wilt 
not  blame  me  if  I  carry  the  Boy's  version  with  me 
to  the  end. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  97 


makes  its  way  by  hook  or  crook, 
and  the  world  looks  on  in  wonder,  but  no- 
body  is  quite  comfortable  until,  like  a  dar 
ing  trapeze  performer,  it  has  rolled  up  its  apparatus 
and  bowed  itself  out. 


98  ADVENTURES    IN 


MARY 

I  WAS  sitting  in  my  brother's  house,  in  a  far 
Western  city.  And  well  content  was  I  to  be 
there.  We  had  not  seen  each  other  in  more 
than  twenty-five  years.  When  he  left  our  home 
in  the  East  I  was  a  lad  of  thirteen,  he  a  young 
man  of  twenty-two.  He  was  now  a  powerful  man 
of  fifty,  deep-chested  and  iron-muscled.  The  vig 
orous  outdoor  life  of  the  West  had  kept  him  strong 
and  young;  the  seasoning  he  had  received  in  shine 
and  storm,  in  blow  and  snow,  as  logger,  plainsman, 
cowboy,  miner,  railroad  engineer,  was  written  in 
every  line  of  his  bronzed  face,  in  his  powerful,  sup 
ple  movements,  in  his  keen  and  steady  vision,  in 
the  rugged  health  that  seemed  to  guarantee  him  for 
another  half-century. 

When  we  met  at  the  station  an  hour  before,  he 
looked  at  me  with  a  doubtful  smile,  trying  to  recall 
his  little  brother — the  "kiddy"  of  a  large  family 
— in  one  who  will  never  see  forty  again.  I  knew 
him  at  once,  yet,  strange  to  say,  not  as  the  hand 
some,  dare-devil  young  man  whom  my  childish 
heart  had  worshipped.  It  seemed  rather  as  if  our 
dead  father  stood  before  me.  As  writings  traced 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  99 

in  invisible  ink  will  after  a  lapse  of  time  steal  out 
in  a  strong  light,  so  the  years  effect  imperceptibly 
the  most  startling  family  resemblances.  Thus  I 
knew  my  brother,  whose  younger  face  I  had  all 
but  lost,  from  his  likeness  to  our  father,  though  he 
himself  was  quite  unconscious  of  it. 

And  then  the  tender  mother,  so  long  gone,  had 
her  will  when  these  two  gray-haired  men  were 
clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  forgetful  of  onlookers 
and  heedless  of  their  tears. 

So  now  we  were  sitting  in  his  neat  home,  with  his 
wife  and  children  about  us.  The  first  fervid  wel 
comes  had  been  said,  the  first  eager  questions  re 
garding  each  other  asked  and  answered.  Our  hearts 
had  been  eased  of  the  first  tense  emotion,  yet  neither 
of  us  felt  the  self-possession  we  feigned,  and  we 
still  looked  at  each  other  between  smiles  and  tears. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  dead  were  striving  to  speak 
through  us  and  it  was  only  by  a  mighty  effort  that 
we  controlled  ourselves.  From  time  to  time,  as  I 
turned  to  speak  to  one  of  the  children,  I  felt  my 
brother's  intent  gaze  upon  me,  seeking  to  bridge 
the  years  between  us,  searching  for  those  proofs  of 
race  and  blood  at  which  the  heart  leaps  up  in  rap 
ture. 

Then  came  a  pause  in  the  talk  and  my  mind  re 
verted  to  an  awful  calamity  which  had  befallen  this 
father  and  mother. 

The  sunlight  of  a  perfect  June  day  in  Iowa  stole 


ioo  ADVENTURES    IN 

softened  through  the  shaded  windows,  filling  the 
modest  room  with  patterns  of  golden  light  and  shin 
ing  in  the  happy  eyes  of  the  children.  And  I  marked 
how  one  glorious  vivid  ray  encircled  the  beautiful 
head  of  a  young  girl  in  a  large  portrait,  whose 
smiling  eyes  seemed  to  challenge  speech  and  whose 
lips  were  parted  as  with  innocent  laughter. 

Instinctively  I  turned  to  the  mother,  meeting  the 
pensive  glance  of  her  dark  blue  Irish  eyes,  which 
by  the  same  instinct  were  fixed  upon  mine. 

"How  old  would  Mary  be?"  I  faltered.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  first  mention  of  her  name. 

"Twenty-four,"  she  answered,  with  a  rush  of 
tears  and  a  pathetic  look  at  the  bright  face  in  the 
picture. 

Then  they  told  me  anew,  sitting  in  the  smile  and 
bright  presence  of  Mary,  the  sad  story  which  I  had 
learned  long  before  from  their  letters,  but  which 
I  now  truly  felt  for  the  first  time.  And  as  they  told 
it,  the  tears  of  all  fell;  but  the  bright  smile  of  Mary 
never  darkened  an  instant  and  seemed  to  include 
us  all  in  its  radiant  blessing. 

It  was  a  simple  yet  terrible  nature-tragedy  of  the 
West,  such  as  the  wires  so  often  bring  us.  In  that 
beautiful  country,  with  its  wide  expanses  of  un 
sheltered  plain,  the  play  of  the  elements  often  passes 
into  rage  uncontrolled  and  suddenly  changes  all  to 
terror,  death  and  desolation.  A  cloud-burst  or  tor 
nado  in  summer,  a  blizzard  from  the  frozen  heart 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  101 

of  Montana  or  Dakota  in  winter,  will  in  a  moment 
sweep  away  the  frail  defences  of  human  life  and 
scatter  ruin  and  dismay  over  hundreds  of  miles, 
drowning,  burying  or  uprooting  whole  villages,  de 
stroying  railroads,  stations  and  bridges,  carrying 
death  far  and  near.  Often  the  work  of  destruction 
is  wrought  within  an  incredibly  brief  space  of  time, 
leaving  havoc  that  years  of  labor  cannot  undo  and 
wounds  in  the  heart  that  only  eternity  can  heal. 

At  this  time — some  twelve  years  ago — Mary's 
mother  was  employed  as  telegraph  operator  at  a 
small  remote  station  on  the  Iowa  prairie.  The  fam 
ily  lived  in  a  little  house  close  by,  on  the  bank  of  a 
shallow  stream  which  the  spring  freshets  sometimes 
raised  to  a  threatening  height.  There  were,  besides 
Mary  the  eldest,  three  younger  girls,  mere  tots  with 
no  more  than  a  year's  difference  between  them, 
and  twin  girl  babies.  Mary  was  a  little  mother  to 
the  rest,  as  her  mamma's  duties  kept  her  long  hours 
at  the  station.  She  was  as  apt  as  willing — a  true 
Western  girl — and  besides  helping  her  mother  at 
house-work,  she  had  learned  the  telegraph  code  and 
would  soon  be  able  to  relieve  her  at  the  station. 
Dear,  brave  young  heart,  that  labor  was  never  to 
be  required  of  her. 

One  night,  when  the  father  was  many  miles  away 
on  his  train,  there  came  up  a  terrible  storm  accom 
panied  by  a  cloud-burst,  that  scourge  of  nature  which 
is  almost  peculiar  to  the  great  Northwest.  With 


102  ADVENTURES    IN 

fearful  suddenness  the  little  creek  rose  to  a  head 
long,  dangerous  torrent,  menacing  the  house  and 
the  station.  Great  as  the  peril  was,  the  mother 
would  not  leave  her  post  at  the  "key"  until  she 
was  relieved,  and  in  this  way  precious  time  was 
lost.  Yet  nobody  about  the  place  was  quick  to  feel 
alarm  or  to  suggest  prompt  action,  so  familiar  is 
the  spectacle  of  storm  and  peril  in  that  wild  coun 
try.  Mary  was  the  bravest  of  them  all,  reassuring 
her  mother,  and  laughing  fearlessly  at  the  few  rail 
road  men  who  had  hurried  to  the  rescue  of  the  lit 
tle  family. 

But  the  storm  ever  growing  fiercer  and  the  flood 
ever  rising — it  was  now  black  midnight — the  water 
entered  the  lower  floor  and  in  a  moment  was  waist- 
deep  in  the  house.  Then,  at  length,  the  mother  was 
prevailed  upon  to  seek  safety  with  her  babes  and 
children  at  the  station,  which  seemed  to  be  less  ex 
posed  to  the  fury  of  the  storm  and  the  force  of  the 
torrent.  Alas!  had  they  remained  in  the  little 
house,  this  story  would  never  have  been  written  and 
I  should  have  been  greeted  on  my  so-long  deferred 
visit  to  Iowa  by  the  original  of  Mary's  smile. 

In  the  awful  darkness  and  panic  of  the  storm, 
unnerved  by  the  wailing  of  the  children,  it  was  but 
too  easy  for  the  few  rescuers  to  make  a  mistake. 
They  made  but  one — and  that  one  was  fatal.  For 
it  chanced  that  some  obstruction  in  the  path  of  the 
flood,  just  above  the  house,  split  unequally  the  brunt 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  103 

of  the  freshet.  The  water  rose  no  higher  in  the 
house — not  a  clapboard  of  it  was  loosened— while 
the  angry  torrent  leaped  with  redoubled  fury  at 
the  frail  wooden  station.  Hardly  had  the  rescuers, 
with  their  helpless  charges,  taken  shelter  there,  when 
the  foundations  began  to  swim  under  them.  In 
a  moment  the  black  water  was  about  them  and  the 
structure  parted  like  a  house  of  cards.  Then,  and 
not  until  then,  did  Mary  cry  out  with  the  fear  of 
her  young  heart,  while  the  frantic  mother  strove 
to  enfold  all  her  children  in  her  arms.  A  brave 
young  fellow,  who  might  easily  have  saved  himself 
— one  of  those  humble,  obscure  heroes  whose  deeds 
glorify  the  common  stuff  of  humanity — caught  the 
terrified  girl  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her  to  his  shoul 
der. 

"Don't  cry,  Mary,"  the  mother  in  her  divided 
anguish  and  terror  heard  him  say — "I'll  save  you!" 

Then  there  came  a  great  rushing  wave  and  they 
passed  away  from  the  mother's  sight — she  with  her 
fair  head  still  resting  on  his  shoulder. 

So  they  were  found,  two  weeks  afterward,  miles 
from  that  place,  when  the  waters  had  subsided. 
Corruption  had  not  touched  this  sweet  wildflower  of 
the  prairie.  The  bloom  was  still  on  her  cheek  and 
the  smile  in  her  eyes. 

The  twin  babes  and  one  other  of  the  girls  per 
ished.  The  mother,  sorely  wounded,  never  knew 
how  her  own  life  was  saved:  nay,  perhaps,  still  won- 


104  ADVENTURES    IN 

ders  why.  For  the  joy  of  her  heart  is  buried  with 
Mary.  .  .  . 

A  story  without  art  and  too  sad  to  be  told,  per 
haps — especially  as  it  is  true,  every  word,  and  the 
telling  has  not  been  easy  for  one  akin  to  the  poor 
victims. 

But  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  to  tell  it,  sitting 
there  before  her  picture  and  marking  the  love  and 
grief  of  her  dear  ones,  and  the  longing  in  her 
mother's  eyes  which  one  thing  alone  can  ever  sat 
isfy.  And — was  it  mere  fancy? — when  I  looked 
up  again,  there  seemed  a  tenderer  light  in  the  eyes 
and  a  rarer  smile  on  the  lips  of  Mary. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  105 


LOST 

I  WAS  born  without  the  sense  of  orientation.  I 
can  honestly  say  (with  a  great  man  of  letters), 
that  were  the  sun  to  rise  in  the  West  some  fine 
morning  before  a  gaping  world,  I  should  be  quite 
unmoved.  I  never  was  able  to  learn  geography  and 
to  this  hour  do  not  understand  the  Cardinal  Points 
— which  are  to  me  rather  the  Cardinal  Terrors.  I 
cannot  form  the  smallest  idea  of  the  geographical 
situation  of  a  place  without  calling  up  in  mind  the 
old  school-book  picture  of  a  Boy  with  arms  extended 
to  East  and  West,  his  face  to  the  North  and  his 
back  to  the  South.  Should  I  ever  utterly  lose  that 
Boy,  God  help  me ! — he  is  my  only  compass  through 
this  wilderness  of  a  world. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  lived  in  many  towns  and 
have  moved  about  with  a  recklessness  akin  to  that 
of  people  who  venture  into  water  without  knowing 
how  to  swim.  Of  all  these  towns  there  was  but  one 
that  the  Boy  fitted — I  mean  where  I  was  sure  of 
the  Points;  for  I  cannot  possibly  get  my  bearing 
without  placing  myself  mentally  in  the  position  of 
the  Boy.  Even  now,  whenever  I  think  of  that  town, 
involuntarily  my  right  hand  points  to  the  East,  my 
left  hand  to  the  West,  my  face  to  the  North,  and 


io6  ADVENTURES    IN 

my  back  to  the  South.  It  is  noon  and  I  am  stand 
ing  gracefully  on  a  Meridian,  an  imaginary  line,  but 
not  so  easy  a  feat  to  an  imaginative  person. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  to  only  one  of  these  towns 
did  the  Boy  have  any  kind  of  logical  application. 
I  couldn't  somehow  adjust  him  to  the  others;  his 
East  was  their  West,  his  South  was  their  North, 
and  I  couldn't  make  it  come  out  right,  though  I 
turned  him  this  way  and  that,  pointing  his  hands 
every  which  way  and  abusing  him  like  a  clothing- 
store  dummy. 

At  this  moment  I,  a  man  of  liberal  education,  of 
sound  and  disposing  reason,  will  and  memory,  am 
unable  to  give  the  simplest  geographical  description 
of  the  town  in  which  I  have  lived  three  years.  I 
don't  know  East  from  North  or  West  from  South 
— for  that  is  the  perverted  way  in  which  I  couple 
them.  I  can't  bound  my  own  house.  I  don't  know 
the  North  from  the  South  end  of  the  cat.  I  am 
as  ignorant  of  the  compass  as  of  the  Fourth  Dimen 
sion. 

This  may  seem  funny  to  you,  but  it  has  a  very 
serious  side  for  me.  For  instance:  I  was  out  late 
one  night  not  long  ago  and  when  I  started  for  home 
the  streets  were  deserted.  Not  even  a  watchman 
or  policeman  in  sight.  Not  a  homeward  reeling 
drunk.  Not  a  single  prowling  night  hack.  Nobody 
and  nothing. 

I  shivered  a  little,  feeling  an  old  sense  of  "lost- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  107 

ness"  come  over  me.  A  film  seemed  to  cover  my 
sight,  shrouding  things  as  with  a  veil.  I  stopped  to 
reason  with  myself,  to  fight  off  this  terrible  illusion, 
knowing  well  from  old  experience  what  threatened 
me.  I  told  myself  firmly,  but  quietly  and  reassur 
ingly,  that  the  town  was  only  about  a  mile  wide, 
that  I  had  come  directly  across  it  and  that  at  this 
very  moment  I  could  not  be  more  than  four  and 
a  half  blocks  from  my  own  house.  A  veiled  moon 
was  shining  softly:  in  spite  of  my  natural  difficulty 
of  navigating,  it  did  not  seem  possible  that  I  could 
miss  my  way. 

Lightened  and  cheerful,  I  went  on  and  even 
plucked  up  courage  to  whistle  a  bit.  But  the  silence 
of  the  lifeless  streets  rebuked  me  and  I  soon  de 
sisted.  I  walked  rapidly  and  the  sound  of  my  foot 
steps  echoed  far.  From  time  to  time  I  turned  to 
look  behind  me,  anxious  for  some  token  of  human 
companionship.  But  I  saw  nobody;  nothing. 

Then  I  perceived  that  I  had  been  walking  a  long 
time  and  must  have  covered  a  far  greater  distance 
than  should  have  brought  me  home.  I  stopped  in 
terror — ah,  whoever  has  felt  that  thrill  of  desola 
tion  will  know  how  to  pity  me ! 

The  houses  were  all  strange  and  seemed  to  re 
pudiate  me  with  closed  and  frowning  eyes.  They 
were  the  houses  of  the  rich,  too,  and  who  does  not 
fear  to  approach  them  at  unlawful  times?  But  I 
must  find  out  where  I  am  and  how  I  may  get  home. 


io8  ADVENTURES    IN 

.  .  .  I  am  stung  with  anguish  at  the  thought  of 
Somebody's  weary  waiting  for  me  ...  for 
oh,  my  God,  I  can  no  longer  conceal  the  truth  from 
myself — I  am  lost! 

Then  I  select  a  house  standing  back  the  depth  of 
its  lawn  from  the  street  and  make  up  my  mind  to 
ask  there.  First  I  study  it  carefully — it  is  like  all 
the  houses  on  this  unfamiliar  street,  massive  and 
rich.  Its  bearing  is  instinct  with  distrust,  like  an 
enemy  holding  his  breath.  I  peer  a  long  time — 
not  a  straw  of  light  from  any  chink  or  crevice.  I 
strain  my  ears  a  long  time — not  the  smallest  atom 
of  sound. 

I  set  my  foot  on  the  gravel  path  and  at  once,  like 
a  growling  watchdog,  a  hostile  wind  comes  down 
to  meet  me  from  some  dark  old  trees  beside  the 
house.  I  go  on  until  I  stand  at  the  heavy  door, 
double-locked  and  chained.  Cursing  the  necessity, 
I  pull  the  bell:  it  startles  me  terribly  and  a  strong 
impulse  moves  me  to  flee.  But  I  hold  my  ground. 

After  a  few  moments  a  window  is  opened  over 
my  head  and  a  man's  angry  voice  says :  "What  the 
devil  do  you  want?" 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  I  am  lost  and  want  to  find 
my  way  home." 

"Oh,  the  devil !— you're  drunk.  Be  off  or  I'll 
have  the  dogs  set  on  you." 

And  the  window  closed  with  a  bang.  And  the 
house  was  as  before,  silent  and  menacing. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  109 

I  walked  a  little  further  along  until  I  had  recov 
ered  from  the  fright  which  the  angry  man  had 
caused  me.  Soon  I  brought  myself  back  to  the  point 
that  I  was  lost,  lost,  lost!  and  must  move  heaven 
and  earth  to  get  home.  Oh,  voiceless,  threaten 
ing  houses !  some  of  you  have  the  secret  and  I  shall 
wrest  it  from  you! 

I  tried  another  with  bolder  hand.  At  least  I 
pressed  an  electric  button  hard,  but  there  was  no 
ring  in  the  house  or  the  heavy  doors  kept  the  sound 
from  me.  I  waited  a  little  while  and  pressed  it 
again.  Was  the  house  empty  or  were  they  dead 
within?  Were  Death  and  Life  in  a  conspiracy 
against  me?  .  .  . 

Angrily  I  left  the  porch  and  strode  without  a  fear 
to  the  next  house.  I  rang,  and  after  no  long  interval, 
rang  again.  Then  I  heard  a  muffled  sound  of  voices, 
and  slippered  feet  descending  a  staircase.  Bolts  were 
shot  back;  the  door  opened  about  six  inches  on  a 
chain.  I  caught  a  quick  glimpse  of  a  man  in  a 
dressing  gown  and  a  woman  in  night  clothes  leaning 
over  the  staircase. 

uWhat  do  you  want?"  The  tone  was  brusque 
but  not  angry  or  menacing.  But  the  faint  moon 
light  striking  through  the  partly  opened  door  caught 
a  silvery  gleam  from  something  that  he  held  against 
his  side  in  the  folds  of  his  dress. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  disturbing  you,  but 
I  am  lost  and  trying  to  find  my  way  home." 


i  io  ADVENTURES    IN 

"Well,  how  can  I  help  you?"  said  the  man,  not 
unkindly,  while  the  woman  strained  above  us  in 
the  darkness  to  hear. 

"It  is  most  humiliating,  sir,  but  I  must  ask  you 
to  direct  me  to  my  house — I  live  at  Number  blank, 
Dash  street." 

The  man  whistled  with  comic  surprise.  "Some 
thing  has  put  you  to  the  queer  all  right,  old  fellow," 
he  said,  "though  you  hardly  look  it.  Well,  I'll  take 
a  chance  on  you.  Your  little  home  is  not  so  far 
away  that  you  can't  get  there  before  the  milkman. 
Just  three  blocks  East  and  two  due  North  will  fetch 
you  to  Mamma.  Good  night,  son!" 

He  grinned  pleasantly  and  shut  the  door  in  my 
face.  I  could  dare  his  revolver  but  not  his  ridicule. 
How  could  I  tell  him  that  his  directions  conveyed 
nothing  to  my  bewildered  sense?  How  explain  to 
him  my  preposterous  need  of  the  Boy,  or  the  fatal 
handicap  under  which  I  labored? 

With  a  sinking  heart  I  turned  away.    Lost!  Lost ! 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  in 


OLD    BOOK    MEN 

I   LOVE  an  old  book — an  old  book  shop — an 
old  book  man.     Who  ever  sucked  wisdom  or 
any  manner  of  profit  from  a  Best  Seller  or  the 
smug  counter  wight  offering  the  same?     Dost  thou 
pretend  to  the  love  of  books?    Then  tell  me  whence 
thou  didst  fill  thy  shelves  ?    I  shall  soon  know  if  thy 
name  be  Elect  or  Legion! 

As  for  me,  my  darlingest,  best-loved  books  are 
the  treasure  trove  of  old  book  stalls,  out-of-the-way 
places  in  the  neglected  corners  and  crannies  of 
trade,  musty,  dusty  and  cobwebby,  but  not  the  less, 
guileless  reader,  intent  on  a  fair  commerce.  The 
point  is  worth  noting.  Your  true  old  book  man,  he 
that  is  verily  "called"  to  the  gentle  traffic,  like  Mat 
thew  from  the  receipt  of  custom,  loseth  naught  by 
his  politic  tolerance  of  dust  and  dimness.  Nay, 
the  spider  abhorrent  to  cleanly  commerce  is  for  him 
a  benign  Arachne  weaving  webs  to  ensnare  his  cus 
tomers. 

In  any  other  sort  of  shop  who  would  tamely  suf 
fer  dust  and  grime,  exasperating  half-light,  shin- 
breaking  stools  and  giddy  ladders  climbing  into 
realms  of  darkness  threatening  life  and  limb?  In 


ii2  ADVENTURES    IN 

any  other  who  would  not  rather  have  the  clerk  look 
for  the  thing  wanted  instead  of  seeking  it  oneself, 
with  manifold  inconvenience?  Behind  this  is  there 
not  a  delicious,  half  guilty  expectation  of  chancing 
upon  some  treasure  that  even  the  dealer  wots  not 
of,  or  has  mayhap  forgotten?  Oh,  you  mean  to 
pay  for  it,  of  course,  but  then  the  satisfaction  of 
producing  it  (after  first  settling  for  the  ostensibly 
sought  and  negligible  thing)  and  saying  with  an 
air, — "Look  here,  old  Black-letter,  how  is  this  for  a 
find?  Why  did  you  never  tell  me  you  had  this  edi 
tion?"  ...  Be  sure  the  worthy  man  will  not  fail 
to  propose  a  price  that  shall  cover  his  chagrin  and 
moderate  your  triumph. 

'Tis  a  delightful  trade  and  confers  a  specious  air 
of  learning  upon  all  engaged  in  it.  Ye  old  book 
man  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the  insolence  of  pa 
trons — his  dignity  subdueth  the  haughtiest;  immune 
as  the  son  of  Thetis,  he  keepeth  behind  his  shelves. 
His  gentle  traffic  partners  with  the  most  seductive 
of  human  vanities,  whence  I  have  observed  that  old 
book  men  seldom  fail,  commercially,  be  they  of  the 
true  genus.  Nor  do  they  often  become  rich — a 
decent  station  betwixt  a  mere  competency  and 
wealth,  somewhat  like  the  factitious  twilight  of  their 
shops,  is  the  utmost  they  may  commonly  hope  for. 
'Tis  perhaps  the  only  business  in  which  a  man  can  be 
both  poor  and  happy.  I  fancy  this  is  in  no  small  de 
gree  because  the  old  book  man  enjoyeth  the  prestige 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  113 

above  touched  upon,  together  with  a  liberal  license 
to  contradict  the  public.  .  .  . 

There  were  great  men  and  memorable  in  the  old 
book  trade  before  the  father  of  Samuel  Johnson, 
but  'tis  not  now  my  intent  to  call  the  roll  of  them.  I 
will  say,  however,  that  the  finest  and  memorablest 
old  book  man  I  ever  knew,  one  lacking  no  essential 
virtue  of  the  ancient  guild  and  indeed  overtopping 
his  fellows  in  several  respects,  was,  and  thank  the 
fates,  still  is,  my  old  friend  Joseph  McDonough  of 
Albany,  N.  Y.  Joe  (as  our  long-standing  affection 
warrants  me  in  calling  him)  knew  more  about  books 
inside  and  out  than  any  man  of  or  alien  to  the  trade 
whom  I  have  ever  known.  He  was  the  heroic  type 
of  old  book  man,  whom  Johnson  or  Goldsmith  or 
Lamb  would  have  delighted  to  talk  with.  In  de 
fault  of  these  great  personages,  he  talked  much  with 
me,  often  in  his  shop  amid  his  books  (they  were  his, 
reader,  in  a  sense  deeper  than  the  commercial  one), 
or,  not  infrequently,  at  some  neat  neighboring  snug 
gery  where  we  might  quench  the  thirst  induced  by 
learned  conversation.  There  was  a  species  of  ropi- 
ness  incident  to  these  delightful  sessions,  as  'twere 
the  dust  of  old  books,  that  made  such  refreshment 
peculiarly  warrantable. 

On  such  occasions  Joe  was  magnificent,  my  def 
erence  to  him  as  his  junior,  together  with  my  respect 
for  his  various  knowledge,  eliciting  the  fullest  dis 
play  of  his  powers.  I  candidly  believe  that  a  record 


ii4  ADVENTURES   IN 

of  his  talk  would  make  an  important  addition  to  the 
curiosities  of  literature,  especially  to  the  illumina 
tion  of  those  neglected  or  forgotten  by-paths  of 
learning  which  bear  a  certain  resemblance  to  the 
dim  and  dusty  alcoves  of  old  book  shops.  Unluck 
ily  I  failed  to  put  down  Joe's  talk  while  it  was  fresh 
in  my  memory;  perhaps  also  my  negligence  was 
abetted  by  my  efforts  to  keep  even  with  him  in  the 
matter  of  irrigation.  In  which  respect,  owing  to  a 
weak  head  and  stomach,  I  usually  came  tardy  off, 
though  God  knows  I  tried  my  best.  .  .  . 

Joe  was  an  Irishman  (by  way  of  Liverpool)  and 
like  most  old  book  men,  a  strong  free  thinker.  But 
such  was  the  genial  charm  of  the  man,  a  charm 
made  up  of  kindness,  cleverness  and  good  humor, 
that  he  had  none  but  friends  in  a  large  church-going 
community.  He  was  a  man  of  ruddy  complexion, 
with  an  abundance  of  yellow  curling  whiskers  which 
earned  for  him,  among  his  bookish  cronies,  the  so 
briquet  of  the  Bonnie  Briar  Brush,  given  in  affec 
tion,  I  need  not  say.  He  had  animal  spirits  equal  to 
his  learning  and  his  occasionally  Gargantuan  appe 
tite.  All  in  all,  he  was  the  heartiest,  jolliest  pagan 
I  have  ever  known,  with  a  philosophy  of  life  which, 
if  limited  on  the  spiritual  side,  offered  him  the  most 
solid  satisfaction.  In  public  as  in  private,  he  talked 
with  tremendous  vim,  noise  and  authority,  and 
laughed  at  his  own  jokes  with  a  simple  and  uproari 
ous  appreciation  that  made  you  love  him  for  that 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  115 

alone.  He  was  one  of  the  best  talkers  I  have  ever 
heard,  on  his  feet  or  across  the  table — solid,  meaty, 
brilliant,  resourceful  and  diverting.  In  a  public 
station  he  would  have  speedily  become  marked  and 
celebrated,  but  he  was  content  to  live  and  will  die — 
many  years  hence  I  hope — an  old  book  man. 

In  one  of  the  Roundabout  papers  Thackeray  says 
that  the  ablest,  most  talented  persons  he  had  known 
did  not  prove  their  talents  by  writing  or  any  other 
form  of  self-exhibition.  (I  do  not  quote,  but  this 
is  the  thought.)  I  never  recall  this  observation  of 
the  great  writer  but  that  I  think  of  Joe  McDonough, 
man  of  genius,  whose  rare  worth  was  known  only 
to  a  few  intimates,  and  who  was  content  to  give  to 
an  old  book  shop  what  was  meant  for  mankind. 


G 


OD  He  knows  who  has  seen  full  well 
How  I  stumbled  thro  the  Year, 
If  better  or  worse,  or  Heaven  or  Hell 
Hath  drawn  my  soul  anear. 


For  I  veered  to  left  and  I  veered  to  right, 
And  seldom  my  course  led  true; 

Yet  aye  in  the  depth  of  my  darkest  night 
One  Star  rose  that  was  You! 

What  grace  may  I  then  of  this  New  Year  ask, 
For  guerdon  or  gift  or  prize? — 

Nay,  only  to  cleave  to  my  one  true  task, 
And  see  your  Star  still  rise. 


116 


THE    UNKNOWN    MASTERPIECE 

ONE  of  the  great  and  original  conceptions 
of  Balzac  is  his  "Unknown  Masterpiece. " 
There  is  hardly  another  work  of  equal 
brevity  in  modern  literature  which  has  been  the  ob 
ject  of  so  much  artistic  envy  and  admiration.  It  is 
not  merely  the  most  finished  single  piece  of  that 
often  turbulent  and  prodigally  careless  genius, — it 
is  also  a  profound  reading  of  the  very  heart  of  life. 
The  Unknown  Masterpiece  of  Balzac!  It  stands 
in  a  small  chapel,  apart  from  the  immense  galleries 
of  the  Human  Comedy,  with  their  enormous  hum 
and  bustle  of  life,  their  incessant  agitation  of  plot 
and  counterplot.  This  chapel  is  dimly  lighted  even 
at  noonday,  the  stained  glass  windows  being  unu 
sually  opaque  and  of  sombre  colors.  One  at  the 
head  of  the  chapel,  giving  light  to  the  apse,  is  of 
somewhat  brighter  hues  than  the  rest,  and  from  this 
there  falls  a  violet  penumbra  which,  with  a  certain 
trembling  at  the  heart,  warns  us  of  the  presence  of 
the  divine  Masterpiece  and  marks  its  precise  loca 
tion.  There  is  a  faint  odor  of  incense,  but  no  priest 
or  acolyte  is  visible.  The  silence  is  absolute,  breath 
ing  of  that  profound  mystery  which  enfolds  the 
higher  conceptions  alike  of  Religion  and  Art. 

"I 


n8  ADVENTURES   IN 

Here  never  enter  the  restless  and  impatient 
crowds  that  stamp  about  in  the  galleries  of  the  Com 
edy.  The  chapel  is  known  only  of  the  few  who  have 
purchased  by  some  measure  of  artistic  thought  and 
travail  a  right  to  partake  in  the  august  consolations 
of  the  place.  It  is,  in  short,  a  Retreat  for  the  elect 
souls  of  art,  where  they  may  purify  themselves  from 
contamination  with  aught  that  degrades  their  noble 
calling;  whence  they  may  go  forth,  with  faith  and 
courage  renewed,  to  the  higher  victory. 

The  story  is  of  an  artist  who  gave  up  his  whole 
life  to  the  painting  of  a  single  picture,  the  portrait 
of  a  beautiful  woman.  On  this  picture  he  lavished 
all  the  treasures  of  his  genius,  all  the  cunning  of  his 
art,  all  the  ardor  of  his  ambition,  all  the  zeal  and 
devotion  of  which  the  human  spirit  is  capable.  He 
worked  in  secret,  in  an  attic  studio  difficult  of  access, 
as  if  each  day's  task  were  an  assignation;  jealously 
resenting  inquiry  as  to  the  subject  of  his  labors; 
never  permitting  anyone  to  look  upon  his  beloved 
creation.  In  time  he  came  to  fancy,  like  Pygmalion 
with  his  Galatea,  that  his  picture  was  really  alive,  a 
woman  of  flesh  and  blood;  and  he  went  in  to  see  her 
with  the  quickened  pulse  of  a  lover  and  the  awak 
ened  desires  of  a  voluptuary.  Ah,  the  trances  of  joy 
and  possession  in  which  hours  flew  by  like  moments ! 
Often,  when  busy  about  the  picture,  he  would  fancy 
that  he  felt  a  light  breath  on  his  cheek  or  in  his  hair; 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  119 

and  not  seldom  he  would  have  sworn  that  a  hand 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder — the  mere  touch  of  a  rose- 
leaf,  but  it  thrilled  him  like  the  embrace  of  the 
Christ-statue  in  the  legend  of  the  adoring  saint. 

But  even  when  he  was  not  under  the  spell  of  this 
strange  nympholepsy,  he  loved  the  picture  with  an 
idolatrous  passion  and  firmly  believed  that  in  it  he 
had  achieved  the  flawless  Masterpiece  of  the  world. 

So  the  years  passed,  as  ever  they  must  both  for 
the  loveless  and  the  loving;  but  no  long  time  ever 
elapsed  without  his  working  at  the  adored  picture; 
touching  here,  retouching  there,  adding  a  little  color 
in  this  place,  giving  that  line  more  grace  and  this 
more  freedom,  freshening  the  flowers  in  her  bosom, 
retracing  the  curious  pattern  of  her  robe  of  figured 
byssus  and  gold, — in  short,  never  wearying  of  those 
little  artistic  coquetries  the  sum  of  which  (said  the 
great  Angelo)  makes  perfection.  And  less  than 
Perfection  he  never  aimed  at  for  this  picture;  less 
than  Perfection  he  was  sure  the  world  would  not 
deem  it.  But  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  even 
to  contemplate  the  exposing  of  his  picture  to  public 
gaze  and  curiosity. 

Being  old  at  length,  arid  always  stubborn  in  his 
contentions,  he  one  day  engaged  in  dispute  with  two 
other  painters  touching  a  favorite  artistic  hobby  of 
his;  and  the  prudence  of  years  falling  away  from 
him  .in  a  moment,  he  offered,  the  better  to  win  them 
to  his  view,  to  show  them  his  Masterpiece.  Now, 


120  ADVENTURES    IN 

when  with  trembling  hands  he  had  drawn  aside  the 
curtain  from  the  idol  of  his  life  and  the  triumph  of 
his  art,  and  had  begun  to  point  out  its  excelling  beau 
ties,  the  painters  saw,  to  their  great  wonder,  that 
there  was  actually  no  figure  on  the  canvas  at  all! 
— only  a  confused  mass  of  lines  and  colors.  The 
old  artist,  so  passionate  for  perfection,  had  in  the 
end  labored  his  great  work  intp  nothingness  and  all 
human  semblance  out  of  his  adored  Master 
piece!  .  .  . 

What  man  but  has  painted  year  by  year  on  the 
intangible  canvas  of  his  soul  such  a  picture  as  that 
of  Balzac's  devoted  artist?  The  woman  we  long  for 
constantly  and  ever  in  vain,  the  Ideal  Woman  of  our 
dreams,  whom  we  desire  the  more  that  possession  of 
her  rivals  of  the  flesh  repels  and  disenchants  us, — 
is  she  not  the  "Unknown  Masterpiece"  enshrined 
in  many  a  heart?  And  the  jealous  fear  of  the 
painter  lest  any  other  should  invade  his  delight  or 
penetrate  his  secret,  is  it  not  the  same  feeling  that 
we  have  with  regard  to  Her,  the  idol  of  our  private 
worship,  the  hidden  consoler  and  comforter,  the  ob 
ject  and  inspirer  of  visions  that  we  never  disclose? 
Ah,  the  years  we  spend  touching  and  retouching  the 
dear  Fantasy;  lavishing  upon  her  all  our  treasures 
of  love  and  tenderness  and  admiration;  making  her 
ever  the  more  beautiful  in  order  to  love  her  the 
more;  ever  remoulding  her  nearer  to  the  heart's  de- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  121 

sire!  How  well  we  keep  the  secret,  too! — hearts 
that  beat  very  near  our  own,  aye,  and  sometimes 
wake  to  watch  and  listen,  never  fathom  the  true 
cause  of  our  mysterious  devotion  or  find  the  clue 
to  the  sacred  inner  chamber  of  the  soul  where  our 
Unknown  Masterpiece  stands  enshrined.  There  all 
is  holy  calm  and  silence,  there  is  perfect  worship, 
there  the  violet  penumbra  faintly  lights  that  ador 
able  Vision  of  Beauty  and  Desire  which  belongs  to 
us  alone,  which  none  may  take  from  us,  and  which 
never  can  be  realized  save  only  for  our  very  selves ! 

For  we  do  hope  until  the  end,  and  in  spite  of  the 
long  disappointment  of  the  years,  that  some  day  we 
shall  find  the  Living  Image  of  her  whom  the  long 
ing  of  our  soul  has  created.  And  when  comes  that 
blessed  day  and  hour,  shall  we  not  kneel  before 
Her,  and  kiss  her  hands  and  feet,  and  beg  leave  to 
show  her  this  marvellous  picture,  her  very  self  in  all 
save  breath  and  motion?  Shall  we  not  weep  tears 
of  joy,  telling  her  of  our  long  and  weary  waiting  and 
of  our  unfaltering  faith  that  she  would  come  at  last? 
Shall  we  not  reveal  to  her  all  the  lovely  dreams  of 
which  she  was  the  inspiration, — and  ah!  shall  we 
not  prove  to  her  that  she  will  now  be  loved  and 
worshipped  as  never  woman  was  before? 

Alas!  such  realization  is  granted  to  but  few.  The 
Master  fabled  aright, — for  the  many  the  dream  re 
mains  unto  the  end — an  Unknown  Masterpiece. 


0 


NCE  when  I  was  a  'very  little  boy, 

With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
I  longed  to  be  a  man  for  joy, — 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


But  when  I  had  got  three  hairs  to  my  chin, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Sweet  woman  was  ever  my  darling  sin, — 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

I'll  shed  no  tears  o'er  youth  that's  gone, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  rfhe  rain, 

For  I  made  my  hay  while  the  merry  sun  shone, — 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

So,  lads  and  lassies,  have  your  fun, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

May  you  smile  like  me  when  your  sports  aye  done, 
Tho  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


122 


THE    BELOVED 

(With  apologies  to  Koheleth.) 

/  am  come  Into  my  garden, 
My  sister,  my  spouse. 

TELL  me  now  how  this  wonder  cometh  that 
I  am  full  of  love. 
For  I  said  to  myself:  the  time  of  love 
for  thee  is  past,  yea,  the  season  of  love  is  over,  and 
thy  heart  is  no  longer  in  the  green  leaf. 

Something  hast  thou  known  of  love  and  much  of 
the  trouble  that  cometh  of  woman.  Be  thou  glad 
that  thou  hast  had  thy  portion  of  that  which  none 
born  of  woman  may  put  by.  Be  thou  glad  and  go 
thy  ways  like  a  wise  man. 

I  hearkened  to  this  voice  in  myself,  I  gave  heed 
to  its  counsel,  and  like  a  wise  man  I  went  my  ways. 

Desire  was  no  longer  as  a  lance  in  my  side  and  my 
sleep  was  untroubled  by  woman. 

Yea,  the  fever  and  the  unrest  of  young  love  fell 
off  from  me,  as  the  day  cools  when  the  shadows 
lengthen. 

My  heart  knew  no  longing  and  that  old  pain  of 
love  which  I  drew  from  the  mother  that  bore  me 
pained  me  no  more. 

123) 


124  ADVENTURES    IN 

So  I  went  my  ways  careless  of  women;  yea,  say 
ing  unto  myself  that  I  should  behold  the  face  of 
Wisdom. 

Now  I  pray  ye  tell  me  how  this  wonder  cometh 
that  I  am  full  of  love? 

Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning, 
fair  as  the  moon,  clear  as  the  sun,  and  terrible  as  an 
army  with  banners? 

My  Beloved  hath  vanquished  me  with  a  glance 
of  her  eye;  with  a  kiss  of  her  mouth  hath  she  led 
me  captive. 

Pity  me,  all  ye  that  have  felt  the  cruel  might  of 
love. 

Lo,  the  weakness  of  youth  is  upon  me  and  old  de 
sire  prevaileth  like  a  strong  enemy  in  the  night. 

Peace  there  is  none  for  me,  nor  any  respite  from 
longing.  /  sleep  but  my  heart  waketh. 

Like  a  fox  in  the  snare  am  I  caught;  like  a  bird 
in  the  hand  of  the  fowler. 

She  hath  kissed  me  with  the  kisses  of  her  mouth, 
and  I  am  drunk  with  the  honey  thereof.  With  the 
kisses  of  her  mouth  hath  she  kissed  me  until  my 
soul  hath  swooned  with  the  rapture  thereof: — oh 
Wisdom,  how  hast  thou  forsaken  thy  child! 

Unto  my  sweet  enemy  am  I  delivered.  Where 
now  is  my  vaunted  strength  and  the  way  of  the  wise 
that  lay  before  me? 

Pity  me,  all  ye  that  have  felt  the  cruel  might  of 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  125 

love,  for  I  am  become  as  a  fox  in  the  snare,  as  a 
bird  in  the  hand  of  the  fowler. 

Thy  lips  are  like  a  thread  of  scarlet. 

Fair  and  sweet  is  my  Beloved  as  any  ever  wrought 
by  the  cunning  Maker  of  women.  Fair  and  framed 
for  all  manner  of  sweet  enticement. 

Young  is  she  and  her  form  as  a  maiden's  that 
knoweth  not  love.  Fresh  and  young  is  she,  but  wise 
in  the  terrible  lore  of  women. 

Delicate  is  the  head  of  my  Beloved,  comely  and 
delicate  even  that  her  mother  might  bear  her  with 
out  pain.  Rich  her  hair  and  fragrant  as  the  sweet- 
smelling  hyacinth.  Oh  my  Beloved !  how  easily  dost 
thou  hold  me  captive  with  but  one  of  thy  hairs ! 

My  Beloved  hath  blue  eyes  like  the  early  violet, 
but  theirs  is  the  lure  of  deep  waters — my  soul  is 
drawn  into  the  depths  thereof.  Her  two  breasts  are 
as  twin  pomegranates  and  their  smell  as  of  myrrh 
or  spikenard. 

Her  mouth  is  love's  own  rose  and  the  honey 
under  her  tongue  is  sweeter  than  rich  wine.  Her 
kisses  pluck  me  like  strong  drink  that  both  allayeth 
and  increaseth  thirst — a  thousand  leave  me  still  un 
satisfied. 

Her  white  body  is  fashioned  for  love's  rarest  mys 
tery  and  delight;  fragrant  is  she  even  as  myrrh  or 
frankincense. 

Fair  and  sweet  is  my  Beloved  as  any  ever  wrought 


126  ADVENTURES    IN 

by  the  cunning  Maker  of  women.    Fair  and  framed 
for  all  manner  of  sweet  enticement. 

/  am  my  Beloved's  and  my  Beloved  is  mine. 

Pity  me,  all  ye  who  have  felt  the  mighty  power  of 
love,  but  do  not,  I  pray  you,  seek  to  deliver  me. 

Be  it  unto  life  or  death,  still  will  I  gladly  go 
where  she  leadeth. 

For  my  bondage  is  sweet  and  I  am  enamored 
of  my  captivity. 

Tame  am  I  as  a  kid  by  its  dam,  as  a  foal  that 
scarce  knoweth  the  pasture. 

Yea,  now  I  see  that  my  ancient  folly  was  wisdom, 
since  that  cannot  be  wrong  which  a  man  taketh  from 
the  mother  that  bore  him. 

My  Beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  hers — she  hath  lain 
on  my  breast  and  our  hearts  have  said  that  which 
cannot  be  unspoken.  My  Beloved  is  mine  and  I 
am  hers. 

Set  me  as  a  seal  upon  thy  heart,  as  a  seal  upon 
thine  arm,  for  our  love  is  stronger  than  death. 

My  Beloved  is  mine  and  I  am  hers: — Wisdom, 
go  thy  ways! 


• 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  127 


C 


'OME,  winds  of  March,  with  bluster, 

Hide,  April  sun,  or  shine: 
You  shall  not  daunt  or  sadden 

This  deep-thrilled  heart  of  mine. 


For  Love  a  kinder  climate 

Around  my  walks   hath  spread, 

With  magic  airs  all  breathing 
And  sunlight  overhead. 

Soft  voices  murmur  near  me, 
Light  hands  are  on  me  laid: 

Ah,  fetters  I  had  broken, 

How  are  you  thus  new  made? 

Fain  would  I  know  the  reason 
For  this   unwonted  thing — 

Love  in  my  bosom  whispers, 
"It  is  thy  second  Spring!" 


128  ADVENTURES    IN 


PECCAVI 

MAN-like  I  have  sinned  enough  in  my  time, 
and  I  may  confess  to  you,  Madame,  that 
my  holiest  seasons  were  when  I  was  phys 
ically  incapable  of  sinning.  If  youth  and  health 
were  to  continue  always,  I  fear  there  would  be  little 
repentance  and  less  religion  in  the  world.  Looking 
back  now  on  some  youthful  follies  that  are  held  to 
be  sinful,  I  can  truly  say  that  when  I  sinned  most  I 
was  most  virtuous — that  is,  I  had  least  thought  of 
evil,  but  was  only  concerned  with  the  pleasure  I 
could  give  and  receive — and  by  pleasure  I  mean 
good.  This  is  a  point,  Madame,  which  the  gloomy 
moralists  of  the  church  have  strangely  distorted — 
they  call  that  evil  which  is  the  good  of  us  poor  sin 
ners  :  hence  we  never  really  come  to  an  understand 
ing  with  them. 

Well,  I  have  agreed  to  forgive  myself  these  pleas 
ant  transgressions,  in  deference  to  morality,  and  to 
recognize  only  as  evil  the  good  I  did  myself  and 
others.  Still,  I  can  not  say  on  conscience  that  I  am 
truly  sorry  for  the  sins  of  my  youth;  for  to  be  truly 
sorry  for  something  you  have  had  and  enjoyed  very 
much,  is,  as  you  know,  Madame,  the  sole  condition 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  129 

of  repentance  and  the  chief  hypocrisy  which  religion 
enters  into  with  human  nature.  You  remember  the 
heart-cry  of  the  good  St.  Augustine,  "Give  me  chas 
tity — but  not  yet!"  (I  have  always  envied  him  that 
beloved  mistress  who  went  weeping  back  to  Africa, 
swearing  that  she  would  never  know  another  man 
— more  than  his  theology!)  .  .  . 

But  in  confessing  to  you,  Madame,  I  may  tell  the 
whole  truth,  sure  as  I  am  of  your  kind  absolution. 
Then  I  do  not  repent  of  nor  am  I  sorry  for  the 
sweet  sins  of  my  youth.  What? — sorry  for  youth? 
for  passion  and  the  first  sweetness  of  love?  for 
strength  and  desire  that  matched  the  glowing  Poem 
of  Life  in  its  blending  of  soul  and  sense?  for  that 
eager  thirst  which  would  have  drained  to  the  dregs 
the  Enchanted  Cup?  for  those  young  raptures  which 
knew  nor  care  nor  consequence?  Ah,  mais  non, 
Madame ! — but  to  you  I  will  confess  that  I  am  most 
contritely  sorry  that  for  me  all  this  fine  madness  of 
youth  is  gone  forever. 

When  I  say  "all,"  you  understand  that  I  refer 
particularly  to  the  poetry,  the  illusion,  which  indeed 
are  the  greater  and  better  part  of  it.  And  since, 
Madame,  I  have  not  yet  reached  that  period  of  age 
and  decrepitude  when  virtue  becomes  entirely  practi 
cable,  it  may  be  that  I  shall  fall  again — oh,  I  shall 
be  very  circumspect!  But  should  the  thing  occur, 
through  the  malice  of  the  Evil  One's  presenting  that 
temptation  which  is  at  once  so  terribly  old  and  so 


130  ADVENTURES    IN 

provokingly  new,  I  shall  be  able  to  forgive  myself — 
if  the  sin  recall  something  of  the  splendid  folly  of 
my  youth.  .  .  . 

Have  you  ever  reflected,  Madame,  how  such  sin 
ning  by  old  men  is  merely  from  a  pathetic  desire  to 
recover  their  lost  youth,  and  so  they  go  in  quest  of 
the  Enchanted  Fountain  which  was  sought  for  many 
years  before  the  days  of  Ponce  de  Leon?  Always, 
too,  they  seek  it  from  young  women,  and  for  this 
there  is  Scriptural  warrant,  as  we  read  that  the  wise 
physicians  of  Israel,  when  all  other  remedies  had 
failed,  prescribed  a  blooming  virgin  to  sleep  in  the 
holy  King  David's  bosom, — with  the  result  that  he 
died  soon  afterward,  but  happy  .  .  .  and  I  have 
heard,  Madame,  that  such  young  women,  loved  by 
old  men,  have  strange  tales  to  tell.  .  .  . 

You  ask  me,  because  of  something  I  wrote  in 
pique  long  since,  if  I  am  a  woman-hater.  A  woman- 
hater,  forsooth?  Dear  lady,  since  I  came  to  years 
of  indiscretion  (a  long  while  ago),  I  have  surely 
never  lived  a  conscious  hour  without  the  thought  of 
woman.  I  have  never  been  out  of  love  for  as  much 
as  a  week  at  a  time,  and  as  a  virtuous  man,  I  have 
often  had  great  ado  to  avoid  plural  passions, — they 
are  so  dreadfully  easy  to  take  on !  Forty  years  has 
not  brought  me  wisdom  in  this  respect :  I  am  as  sus 
ceptible  as  ever,  to  such  a  degree,  indeed,  that  I 
sometimes  fear  for  myself  an  incipient  softening  of 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  131 

the  brain.  But  no,  it  is  simply  a  disposition  which 
I  imbibed  with  my  mother's  milk — (she  was  a  very 
loving  woman,  Madame,  and  as  a  proof  gave  to 
the  world  thirteen  of  us,  of  whom  I  was  the  last 
born).  And  God  forfend  that  I  should  ever  lose  it 
— that  is  to  say,  love  the  less;  the  same  being  the 
worst  terror  that  old  age  could  have  in  store  for 
me.  I  was  much  comforted  lately  by  reading  in  an 
Italian  novelist  that  men  of  the  poetical  tempera 
ment  are  never  really  too  old  to  love. 

So  you  see,  Madame,  how  unmerited  was  the  re 
proach  you  would  have  put  upon  me,  and  all  because 
of  a  bit  of  satirical  writing  which  very  carelessly 
masked  my  deeper  thought. 

And  if  this  avowal  should  not  content  you,  I  could 
show  you  proofs — joys  that  have  been  mine  in  the 
pursuit  of  love,  joys  that  it  is  ever  a  new  joy  to  re 
call — and  wounds,  dear  lady,  that  are  even  more 
convincing.  .  .  . 

Ah,  Madame !  I  see  you  now  believe  me. 


L 


O,  April's  here,  with  all  her  saucy  train, 

(I  was  born  of  an  April  day) 
Ah,   well  I  know  her  by  my  heart's  sweet 

pain, — 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 


Weeping  and  smiling  she  comes  as  of  old, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Wakening  desire  like  the  flower  in  the  mold,- 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

Aye,  many's  the  time  hath  she  piped  for  me, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Yet  ever  I  long  for  her  minstrelsy, — 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

Soon  will  she  pour  for  me  the  old  mad  wine, 
With  a  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

And  bid  me  love, — me  and  this  heart  of  mine 
(I  was  born  of  an  April  day!) 


132 


DEATH  AND  THE   DOCTOR 

AS  a  rule,  people  do  not  talk  or  think  much 
about  their  health  until  they  have  lost  it, 
and  it  would  therefore  seem  that  the  major 
ity  of  Americans  are  far  from  well.  Few  of  us  in 
deed  are  really  robust,  excepting  those  socially  as 
piring  ladies  who,  as  Oscar  Wilde  said,  affect  ill 
ness  as  a  form  of  refinement. 

No  doubt  we  are  put  together  on  the  most  admira 
ble  scientific  principles,  but  it  would  seem  as  though 
the  good  Lord  had  troubled  himself  to  find  room 
for  too  many  things  inside  of  us.  However,  if 
we  were  less  complex,  we  should  not  have  the  amus 
ing  literature  of  Mr.  Upton  Sinclair.  For  it  is  one 
of  the  curious  facts  of  human  experience,  that  our 
ailments  often  become  in  the  long  run  a  comfort  to 
us  and  may  even  conduce  to  our  length  of  days ! 

Now  and  then  a  heretic  like  the  terrible  G.  B. 
Shaw  (there  are  unfortunately  very  few  strictly  like 
him)  raises  his  voice  to  deny  that  medicine  is  an 
exact  science;  yet  I  have  lately  read  an  article  in  a 
medical  journal  in  which  about  three  hundred  symp 
toms  of  disease  are  enumerated  from  an  urinary 
analysis.  If  the  patient  should  exhibit  any  of  these 

133 


134  ADVENTURES    IN 

symptoms,  he  is  in  a  bad  way;  and  on  the  other 
hand,  if  none  at  all  appear,  his  case  may  be  grave 
indeed! 

Medicine,  like  theology,  is  much  of  a  guess — the 
only  convinced  and  certain  experimenters  are  those 
who  have  passed  beyond.  Unfortunately,  we  can 
not  avail  ourselves  of  their  discoveries.  If  the  dead 
were  suffered  to  return,  there  would  be  an  end  at 
once  of  the  Problem  of  the  Hereafter  and  of  guess 
work  in  medicine.  It  is  possible  also  that  next  day 
there  might  be  missing  two  important  Professions 
from  the  world. 

Under  present  conditions,  about  all  we  know  for 
a  surety  is  that,  flatter  the  phagocyte  as  we  please, 
butter  the  opsonin  how  we  may,  every  mother's  son 
of  us  is  up  against  a  losing  game.  However  boldly 
and  skillfully  we  may  play  our  part,  however  un 
dauntedly  we  may  bear  ourselves,  victory  in  the  end 
goes  to  the  Noseless  One.  The  bravest  fight  that 
ever  was  fought,  as  well  as  the  cravenest,  is  fore 
doomed  to  this.  There  is  no  other  way. 

This  truism  renders  almost  comic  the  universal 
anxiety  among  persons  of  all  ages  to  escape  the 
inescapable.  Whether  it  be  a  merciful  provision  or 
not — (it  is  quite  possible  to  regard  it  as  a  master 
piece  of  ironic  cruelty!) — no  man  can  fully  take  to 
his  bosom  the  thought  of  death  until  his  very  min 
utes  of  life  are  numbered. 

We  talk  about  the  zest  of  life  in  youth :  zest  it  is, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  135 

but  an  ignorant  zest  that  reckons  not  wisely  of  the 
precious  and  perishable  stuff  of  life.  Youth  knows 
no  desire  of  life  like  age  foreseeing  with  fatal  cer 
tainty  the  end  and  letting  go  of  each  hour  with  an 
agony  of  renunciation.  Nature  often  out  of  kind 
ness  for  her  favorites  drops  a  lethal  sleep  upon  the 
eyelids  of  the  young,  and  this  is  the  meaning  of  the 
ancient  wisdom  which  held  such  to  be  the  beloved  of 
the  gods.  But  her  summons  to  fearful  and  reluc 
tant  age  is  like  the  grim  office  of  those  mute  execu 
tioners  of  the  Roman  arena  who  slew  with  clubs 
such  victims  as  had  survived  the  torture. 

There  are  three  things  that  no  young  man  can  be 
expected  to  prize  like  an  old  man — money,  and 
health,  and  life. 

The  human  race  has  been  trying  to  learn  the  les 
son  of  death  for  countless  thousands  of  years,  and 
all  this  accumulated  experience  is  not  of  the  slight 
est  value  to  the  man  who  dies  to-day. 

It  is,  therefore,  much  better  to  hang  on  to  the 
cheerful  habit  of  living.  Also,  I  would  give  this 
counsel  to  my  friends :  Be  not  too  much  concerned 
about  your  health,  nor  over-curious  touching  your 
internal  economy — there  are  more  things  there  than 
it  would  be  useful  or  even  decent  for  you  to  know. 

I  greatly  admire  the  courage  of  Mr.  Sinclair  in 
leaving  the  primrose  path  of  the  successful  novelist, 
in  order  to  point  the  way  of  relief  to  over-eating 
humanity.  In  one  respect  at  least  his  example 


136  ADVENTURES    IN 

ought  to  be  imitated  by  the  doctors  generally  and 
especially  commended  to  the  vivisectors, — I  mean 
his  trying  things  on  himself.  This  is  heroism  of  a 
type  too  rare.  But  I  am  not  immoderately  fasci 
nated  by  a  so-called  scientific  diet  system.  I  don't 
see  how  Mr.  Sinclair  can  enjoy  his  dinner,  while  he 
is  carefully  counting  up  the  calories,  dispassionately 
subtracting  the  proteids,  calmly  estimating  the  bac 
teria  and  maybe  sometimes  forgetting  to  carry  one. 
Of  course,  he  may  tell  me  that  a  man,  correctly 
speaking,  ought  not  to  enjoy  his  dinner,  and  so  help 
me,  I  have  seen  but  few  scientific  "foodists"  who 
looked  as  if  they  did.  This  is,  I  presume,  in  accord 
ance  with  the  fitness  of  things.  Better  than  mere 
animal  satisfaction,  the  peace  of  hands  folded  over 
a  paunch  replete,  the  delicious  and  all-suffusing  con 
tent  of  one's  gastric  juices,  the  beatific  swan-song 
of  the  liver,  the  voiceless  hymn  of  praise  arising 
from  the  whole  internal  man — higher  and  better 
than  these,  I  dare  say,  is  the  assurance  of  having 
eaten,  or  at  least  put  out  of  sight,  a  dietetically  cor 
rect  dinner.  In  his  own  case  Mr.  Sinclair  has  dem 
onstrated  that  eating  is  rather  a  negligible  function 
— I  need  not  stop  to  point  out  how  Art  and  Litera 
ture  would  benefit  if  struggling  genius  were  only 
able  to  look  at  it  in  that  way. 

For  a  similar  reason  I  dissent  from  even  a  greater 
authority  than  Mr.  Sinclair,  though  not  so  interest 
ing  a  writer — I  refer  to  the  illustrious  Metchnikoff. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  137 

The  bacillus  Bulgaricus  may  be  a  good  friend  of 
mine,  but  why  should  I  plant  him  in  my  cherished 
internal  cosmos,  my  beloved  and  solitary  colon,  if 
I  have  to  think  of  him  increasing  and  multiplying 
there  in  numbers  terrifying  to  the  imagination?  Is 
it  pleasing  for  a  man  to  think  of  his  personal 
"midst"  as  a  theatre  of  war  and  pillage,  of  mobili 
zation  and  maneuvers,  of  frays  and  forays,  of  pur 
suit,  capture  and  death?  Heavens,  what  a  thought 
to  take  to  one's  resting  pillow! 

I  said  just  now  that  we  should  not  fuss  too  much 
about  our  health  or — which  is  much  the  same  thing 
— about  what  is  going  on  inside  of  us.  The  chances 
are  that  if  you  imagine  some  organ  affected,  symp 
toms  will  appear  to  confirm  your  morbid  fancy,  and 
you  will  pass  the  rest  of  your  days  between  disease 
and  the  doctor.  There  is  this  much  truth  in  Chris 
tian  Science — the  mind  primarily  causes  a  good  half 
of  our  maladies.  Mr.  Sinclair  tells  us  that  people 
do  not  die  of  starvation  in  four  or  five  days — they 
die  of  fear.  No  doubt  he  is  right.  I  believe  that 
death  is  a  consenting;  that,  save  by  violence  or  casu 
alty,  no  one  dies  without  an  act  of  volition.  This, 
I  believe,  is  Nature's  truce  with  us,  though  so  few 
understand  it.  And  so  I  should  define  a  natural 
death  as  one  in  which  the  person  concerned  agrees 
to  die. 

It  would  be  a  great  work  to  banish  fear  from  the 
world,  and  the  thing  might  be  done  if  so  many  peo- 


138  ADVENTURES    IN 

pie  did  not  foolishly  or  wickedly  or  piously  believe 
that  their  worldly  comfort  or  their  eternal  salvation 
or  the  good  of  others  depended  upon  it. 

Nothing  is  so  universal  as  fear.  We  are  all 
scared  to  death  three-fourths  of  the  time,  about  our 
bills,  or  our  wives,  or  our  health,  or  our  business. 
Nothing  is  so  contagious  as  fear  of  any  kind;  it 
works  more  miracles  than  faith  and  plays  many  a 
grisly  jest. 

I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  man  who  had  died  of 
a  withered  pancreas.  As  I  carefully  take  to  myself 
the  advice  just  given,  I  had  no  idea  the  pancreas  was 
a  vital  organ,  nor  indeed  any  familiar  acquaintance 
with  it.  But,  as  the  newspapers  commented  widely 
upon  the  man's  peculiar  cause  of  death,  I  look  to  see 
the  usual  epidemic  follow,  and  for  some  time  to 
come  shall  expect  to  find  the  pancreas  heavily 
charged  in  the  bills  of  mortality. 

To  desire  length  of  days  is  natural,  and  the  Good 
Book  promises  this  boon  to  the  just;  but  it  is  by  no 
means  the  noblest  desire.  Better  it  were  to  wish 
that,  whatsoever  our  mortal  term,  it  may  not  out- 
span  our  will  and  capacity  to  love  and  serve  our 
kind.  A  selfish,  useless  life  spent,  like  that  of  a  Chi 
nese  god,  in  absorbed  contemplation  of  one's  navel 
— what  grace  or  honor  or  worthiness  can  age  bring 
to  it? 

Good  sense  will  usually  avail  to  keep  a  man  in 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  139 

this  world  as  long  as  he  shall  care  to  stay — it  is 
only  an  old  woman  here  and  there  who  would  live 
forever  in  the  chimney  corner.  Be  a  man  and  sur 
render  without  loss  of  dignity.  Death  is  a  respecter 
of  courage,  if  not  of  persons — show  a  bold  front 
and  he  will  not  come  first  to  you.  Always  is  he 
busiest  where  he  sees  the  white  flag  of  fear — he  has 
so  much  to  do,  so  much  to  do !  that  he  likes  to  find 
his  work  easy. 

Laugh  at  Death  and  the  chances  are  that  he  will 
give  you  a  meaning  salute  and  pass  by.  Get  into  a 
panic  and  chase  after  Dr.  Cure-all — you  will  pres 
ently  have  a  surer  physician  on  your  trail.  When 
the  Fear  is  really  at  hand, — as  once  occurred  to  me, 
when  though  I  called  to  it,  it  went  away, — you  will 
learn  that  it  is  no  fear  at  all.  For  it  is  much  easier 
to  die  than  to  live,  and  at  the  last  Nature  helps  us 
to  play  our  part.  Indeed,  I  believe  few  of  us  know 
what  true  courage  is  until  we  come  to  die,  though 
we  talk  of  it  so  loosely. 

After  all,  no  task  were  possible  did  we  not  fore 
see  the  end  of  it  from  the  beginning,  and  perhaps, 
with  all  our  love  of  life,  we  should  shrink  from  it 
with  a  thousand-fold  terror,  were  there  no  certainty 
of  death.  Swift's  conception  of  a  tribe  of  human 
beings  who  could  not  die  is  justly  voted  the  most 
horrible  in  literature. 

The  fear  of  death  is  largely  a  growth  of  super 
stition  and  it  has  especially  been  fostered  by  the 


ADVENTURES    IN 

Christian  faith,  with  its  terribly  uncertain  award  in 
the  Hereafter.  To  the  ancients  it  was  utterly  un 
known  in  this  dreadful  aspect,  and  was  indeed 
accepted  with  a  natural  firmness  and  resignation 
which  "makes  cowards  of  us  all."  But  the  last 
thing  to  be  said  is,  that  our  modern  fear  of  death  is 
as  foolish  as  it  is  futile  and  mocks  itself.  For  why 
cling  so  desperately  to  this  uneasy  life  which  you 
are  yet  ever  wishing  an  end  of  by  discontent  with 
the  present  living  day  or  idle  anticipation  of  the 
morrow?  Do  you  remember  when  it  was  thrust 
upon  you? — I  doubt  that  you  will  be  more  con 
scious  when  it  is  at  last  taken  away. 

A  little  while  ago  I  said  that,  in  my  humble  be 
lief,  death  is  a  consenting,  and  that  no  man,  save 
by  casualty,  is  called  upon  to  yield  up  the  gift  of  life 
without  a  supreme  act  of  volition.  Also  I  believe 
that  when  the  final  moment  comes,  Death  holds  for 
us  a  wonderful  and  most  pleasant  surprise;  and 
when  he  shall  offer  us  his  strong  arm,  as  he  did  to 
Will  o'  the  Mill  in  Stevenson's  charming  parable, 
we  shall  not  turn  from  him  in  terror  and  loathing, 
but  rather  resign  ourselves  to  him  with  infinite  trust 
as  the  great  Deliverer  and  Friend ! 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS  141 


/i  LITTLE  romance  in  your  heart,  a  little  in- 
£i   mention  in  your  head,  a  little  iron  in  your 
**.*&.    purpose, — these  things  will  keep  a  man  in 
the  world  as  long  as  it  is  decent  for  him  to  stay. 


142  ADVENTURES    IN 


THE  WOMAN 

TEACHER,  please  tell  us  why  there  is  so 
much  about  love  and  marrying  in  English 
novels: — it  seems  to  us  very,  very 
strange?" 

Thus,  once  upon  a  time,  innocently  queried  Laf- 
cadio  Hearn's  Japanese  pupils,  young  men  ranging 
in  age  from  nineteen  to  twenty-three. 

Whereupon  Lafcadio  laid  aside  the  work  of  fic 
tion  under  discussion  and  boldly  set  out  to  elucidate 
the  great  Western  Question  of  Sex  for  these  naive 
Orientals.  At  the  end  of  three  hours  he  was  still 
talking;  like  Tristram  Shandy  narrating  the  mo 
mentous  fact  of  his  birth,  he  did  everything  except 
tell  it.  But  the  politeness  of  Japanese  youth  ex 
ceeds  even  their  thirst  for  knowledge:  Lafcadio's 
pupils  looked  long-eyed  content  with  his  explanation, 
and  he  was  so  well  pleased  with  it  himself  that  he 
embodied  it  in  an  essay  and  printed  the  same  in  a 
book.  But  even  there  he  omitted  to  explain  his 
explanation. 

Now  the  best  part  of  Prof.  Hearn's  elucidation 
of  the  Western  Sex  Problem  was  where  he  frankly 
told  his  class  that  the  matter  was  one  very  difficult 
to  elucidate, — there  being  nothing  like  a  parallel  to 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  143 

it  in  the  social  life  of  the  Far  East.  It  is  far  from 
easy  of  explanation,  even  to  us  in  the  West,  though 
we  be  witnesses  of  the  Overwhelming  Feminine  on 
every  hand.  Whether  it  be  a  force  for  good  or  evil, 
for  weakness  or  strength,  the  fact  may  not  be  dis 
puted  that  it  is  more  and  more  becoming  the  most 
peculiarly  marked  characteristic  of  Western  civiliza 
tion.  Perhaps  it  is  even  more  distinctive  than  our 
conventional  Christianity,  and  as  a  cult  it  is  unques 
tionably  more  popular.  Whatever  the  East  may  or 
may  not  be,  the  West  is  THE  WOMAN.  There  is 
here  an  universal  preoccupation  with  sex  or  the  femi 
nine  element,  amounting  at  times  to  a  veritable 
obsession  or  erotomania — an  astounding  paradox, 
by  the  way,  in  view  of  the  long  accepted,  mission 
ary-inculcated  notions  as  to  sexual  morality  in  the 
East.  Our  thousand-tongued  journalism  proclaims 
it  by  a  myriad  devices  and  finds  therein  its  chief 
profit  and  raison  d'etre.  Our  theatre  is  not  alone 
hopelessly  commercialized  but  also,  as  a  consequence, 
feminized  beyond  hope  of  redemption,  being  given 
over  to  the  frankest  exploitation  of  the  sexual  mo 
tive.  The  "stars"  are  all  women,  the  plays  are 
made  for  them,  and  are  specially  designed  to  exhibit 
them  by  every  resource  of  the  dramatic  procureur. 
A  syndicate  of  the  Sons  of  Sem  is  in  control  of  the 
theatrical  world  and  is  held  responsible,  with  how 
much  justice  I  can  not  say,  for  the  feminization  here 
alluded  to.  I  have  heretofore  pointed  out  that  Sex 


i44  ADVENTURES    IN 

is  the  magic  word  in  our  drama  as  in  our  journal 
ism. 

As  for  our  literature, — but  the  pen  is  only  just 
warming  in  my  hand,  and  this  division  of  the  sub 
ject  asks  a  new  paragraph. 

Writing  to  a  friend  from  Japan,  Prof.  Hearn 
amended  his  explanation  as  follows: 

"The  whole  truth  is  always  suggested  to  me  by 
the  (American)  Sunday  paper.  We  live  in  the 
musky  atmosphere  of  desire  in  the  West;  an  erotic 
perfume  emanates  from  all  that  artificial  life  of 
ours;  we  keep  the  senses  perpetually  stimulated 
with  a  million  ideas  of  the  Eternal  Feminine;  and 
our  very  language  reflects  the  strain.  The  Western 
civilization  is  using  all  its  arts,  its  sciences,  its  phi 
losophy  in  stimulating  and  exaggerating  and  exacer 
bating  the  thought  of  sex.  *  *  *  It  pollutes 
literature,  creates  and  fosters  a  hundred  vices,  ac 
centuates  the  misery  of  those  devoted  by  the  law 
of  life  as  the  victims  of  lust.  It  turns  art  from 
Nature  to  sex.  It  cultivates  one  esthetic  faculty  at 
the  expense  of  all  the  rest." 

From  one  who  had  practised  literature  and  jour 
nalism  in  the  West,  and  who  is  credited  with  unusual 
experiences,  this  is  sufficiently  thorough.  But  the 
subject  is  a  large  one,  and  Lafcadio  has  left  me  a 
few  things  to  say. 

Sex,  by  which  I  mean  THE  WOMAN,  is  written  all 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  145 

over  the  literature  of  the  day  and  the  hour.  It  is 
the  staple  of  journalism,  there  being  nothing  else 
betwixt  heaven  and  earth  that  is  not  regarded  as 
purely  negligible  by  comparison.  This  rule  of  our 
journalism  authorizes  a  concentration  of  effort  that 
yields  not  seldom  fearful  results.  The  majority  of 
sexual  crimes  are,  beyond  question,  due  to  news 
paper  suggestion; — you  may  easily  convince  your 
self  of  this  by  noting  how  the  journalistic  exploita 
tion  of  a  crime  of  this  sort  is  quickly  and,  as  it  were, 
responsively  followed  by  others  of  like  nature.  And 
the  most  terribly  alluring  figure  in  the  eye  of  our 
popular  journalism  is  the  Prostitute,  the  Phryne  of 
the  social  heights  or  depths,  by,  for  or  through 
whom  murder  and  crimes  scarcely  less  dark  are 
committed.  Ab'out  the  shrine  of  this  Infama  Dea 
our  journalists  abase  themselves,  or  march  by  in 
phallic  procession; — she  is  also  deeply  considered 
in  the  calculations  of  the  Business  Office. 

What  I  have  called  the  Overwhelming  Feminine 
is  otherwise  and  variously  borne  witness  to  in  our 
newspaper  press.  Sexual  sin  is,  of  course,  the  fa 
vorite  theme,  but  if  through  some  failure  of  the 
journalistic  providence,  this  can  not  be  had  for  the 
morning  or  evening  edition,  then  anything  about 
THE  WOMAN,  in  order  to  save  our  circulation! 

One  might  go  on  endlessly  illustrating  the  Over 
whelming  Feminine,  but  that  is  the  business  of  the 
newspapers.  The  terrible  vision  of  Schopenhauer 


146  ADVENTURES    IN 

— men  rising  up  to  crush  by  force  of  arms  the 
attempted  dominance  of  women — is  not  indeed  fully 
justified  by  these  exhibits  of  American  journalism 
as  reflecting  the  feminized  sentiment  of  our  civiliza 
tion.  Still,  it  makes  Schopenhauer  more  readable, 
if  not  more  acceptable  as  a  social  prophet. 

Turn  we  now  to  literature  as  distinguished  from 
journalism,  the  distinction  often  being  no  great  mat 
ter.  Lafcadio  Hearn's  Japanese  pupils  could  not 
understand  why  Western  young  people  should  have 
so  much  trouble  in  the  commonplace  affair  of  mar 
riage,  the  same  being  quite  differently  regulated  in 
the  Land  of  the  Sunrise.  Li  Hung  Chang  once 
gave  expression  to  this  feeling  of  Oriental  wonder 
and  stupefaction  when  his  carriage  was  held  up  on 
Fifth  Avenue  by  a  crowd  besieging  a  spectacular 
wedding.  "What!"  exclaimed  the  Great  Man  of 
the  East,  "is  all  this  mobbing  and  uproar  because 
two  young  people  are  about  to  enter  into  sexual  re 
lations?  By  Confucius,  but  this  is  a  marvellous 
country!"  And  to  avoid  seeing  good  rice  abused, 
he  gave  orders  to  drive  down  a  side  street.  .  .  . 

This  botheration  of  courtship  and  marriage  and, 
often  enough,  a  different  kind  of  post-nuptial  trou 
ble,  about  which  the  novels  have  less  to  say,  makes 
the  staple  of  Western  fiction.  In  its  more  repressed 
and  conventional  forms,  it  fills  the  so-called  stand 
ard  magazines,  most  of  which  give  the  feeling  of 
having  been  written  by  the  same  contributors,  edited 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  14? 

by  the  same  editors,  and  illustrated  by  the  same 
artists.  There  is  always  a  picture  of  a  woman — 
THE  WOMAN — on  the  cover,  and  there  may  be  many 
pictures  of  her,  inside.  Without  the  Pictorialized 
Feminine,  success  is  judged  to  be  impossible  by  the 
great  men  of  the  magazine  trade. 

One  illustration  of  the  Overwhelming  Feminine 
gleaned  from  the  magazines  must  suffice.  The  best 
known  woman  poet  in  America,  a  writer  of  strong 
passional  impulse,  not  long  ago  wrote  a  poem  de 
nouncing  War,  that  was  as  heartily  praised  as  it 
was  widely  read  and  quoted.  In  this  poem  she 
urged  women  the  world  over  to  stop  bearing  chil 
dren  until  men  shall  make  an  end  of  War.  It 
needs  no  Solomon  to  point  out  that  the  effectual 
carrying  out  of  this  program  might  result  in  moral 
conditions  quite  as  bad  as  those  of  any  war  could 
be;  but  women  poets  are  not  expected  to  be  logical. 
Her  argument,  divested  of  poetry,  was  one  very 
familiar  to  Eve  and  since  to  all  her  daughters: 
Until  you  get  what  you  want,  don't  give  the  man 
what  he  wants. 

But  what  a  naive  disclosure  of  the  Overwhelming 
Feminine ! 

In  books,  especially  books  written  by  women,  we 
get  the  fruit  of  super-feminism  at  its  ripest  and 
rankest.  Such  books  may  not  be,  certainly  are  not, 
literature  in  any  solid  or  vital  sense,  but  they  are 
valuable  for  that  petty  observation  in  which  women 


148  ADVENTURES    IN 

writers  usually  excel,  and  they  are  interesting  for 
their  immorality  and  their  utter  lack  of  reserve  in 
treating  of  the  sex  relation.  In  this  latter  respect 
they  make  the  most  hardened  male  writer  feel  like 
a  boy  in  his  first  pair  of  long  pants.  They  find  a 
new  thrill  for  the  most  sated  of  us.  They  almost 
rediscover  our  lost  innocence — only  to  take  it  away 
again !  They  know  how  the  man  feels  as  well  as 
the  woman:  herein  is  their  advantage — no  man  ever 
knows  how  the  woman  feels.  Hence  their  success 
in  writing  novels  of  the  erotic,  passional,  super- 
feminine  type.  I  shall  never  cease  to  marvel  at  the 
unchaste  unchastity,  the  modest  immodesty  of  liter 
ary  women. 

A  good  example  is  "The  Helpmate,"  by  May 
Sinclair,  an  English  writer  with  several  warm  novels 
to  her  credit — with  the  fear  of  Comstock  upon  me, 
I  pass  by  her  sister  aphrodisiaque,  the  author  of 
"Three  Weeks."  Miss  Sinclair  is  a  true  child  of 
her  era — she  can  see  nothing  in  the  world  but  sex. 
In  her  art  it  is  the  one  thing  needful,  the  one  thing 
predominant,  and  it  must  be  added,  the  one  thing 
interesting.  The  story  opens  with  the  heroine  in 
bed  with  her  husband — they  are  in  their  honeymoon. 
Miss  Sinclair  indeed  never  strays  far  from  the  Bed 
— it  is  always  handy  at  emotional  crises  and  truly 
it  is  more  entertaining  and  convincing  than  some  of 
her  sawdust  puppets.  Super-feminism  is  the  note 
of  this  book — I  have  already  said  that.  When  the 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  149 

heroine  learns  that  her  just-wedded  husband  has  had 
an  intrigue  and  a  mistress,  we  read  that 

"she  loathed  her  womanhood  that  was  yester 
day  as  sacred  to  her  as  her  own  soul.  Through  him 
she  had  conceived  a  thing  hitherto  unknown  to  her, 
a  passionate  consciousness  of  her  body.  She  hated 
the  hands  that  had  held  him,  the  feet  that  had  gone 
with  him,  the  lips  that  had  touched  him,  the  eyes 
that  had  looked  at  him  to  love  him." 

Then  follows  a  kind  of  estrangement  between 
these  two  which  irritates  more  than  it  convinces  and 
which,  if  the  author  had  only  known  her  business, 
was,  if  credible  at  all,  a  mere  effect  of  jealous  pas 
sion.  So  a  man  writer  would  have  treated  it,  but 
that  is  not  the  way  of  the  super-feminist.  There  is, 
of  course,  the  usual  feminine  facility  of  ufine  writ 
ing"  and  even  a  vapid  attempt  at  pietism  (English 
High  Church)  here  and  there,  with  sex,  sex,  sex 
behind  it  all.  But  after  a  hundred  pages  or  so  of 
this  kind  of  futility,  Miss  Sinclair  seems  to  be  over 
come  by  a  recollection  of  "Madame  Bovary"  (in 
which  famous  work  there  is  also  a  remarkable 
Bed) .  Whatever  the  cause,  with  scarcely  a  note  of 
warning,  she  disposes  of  the  wife's  impracticable 
chastities  and  beguiles  the  unsuspecting  reader  into 
an  ambush.  And  thus  she  does  it: — 

"He  led  her  to  her  tree  where  she  seated  herself 
regally  as  before.  He  poured  his  sheaves  of  hya- 


150  ADVENTURES    IN 

cinth  as  tribute  into  her  lap.  He  stretched  himself 
beside  her  and  love  stirred  in  her  heart,  unforbid- 
den,  as  in  a  happy  dream.  He  watched  the  move 
ments  of  her  delicate  fingers,  as  they  played  with 
the  tangled  hyacinth  bells.  Her  hands  were  wet 
with  the  thick  streaming  juice  of  the  torn  stalks; 
she  stretched  them  out  to  him  helplessly.  He  knelt 
before  her  and  spread  his  handkerchief  on  his  knees, 
and  took  her  hands  and  wiped  them.  She  let  them 
rest  in  his  for  a  moment  and  with  a  low,  panting 
cry,  he  bowed  his  head  and  covered  them  with 
kisses.  At  his  cry  her  lips  parted.  And  as  her 
soul  had  called  to  him  across  the  spiritual  ramparts, 
so  her  eyes  said  to  him,  "Come!" — and  he  knew 
that  with  all  her  body  and  soul  she  yearned  to  him 
and  consented." 

Somehow  one  thinks  better  of  Flaubert  after 
reading  this  and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  realizes 
the  perfect  art  and  truth  of  the  great  scene  of  Emma 
Bovary's  woodland  ride  with  her  lover;  whilst  the 
magic  words  privileged  to  haunt  the  memory  are  not 
May  Sinclair's — 

"Something  sweet  seemed  to  come  out  of  the 
trees r 

Now  the  value  of  the  foregoing  and  other  like 
scenes  in  Miss  Sinclair's  story — there  are  plenty  of 
them  and  there  is  nearly  always  a  Bed! — from  the 
view-point  of  this  article,  is  their  being  true  to 
super-feminism,  if  not  to  nature.  The  book  is  really 
important  as  an  unconscious  revelation  of  the  tyr- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  151 

anny  which  the  sex  idea  exercises  over  women.  Miss 
Sinclair's  women  can  neither  think  nor  talk  of  any 
thing  else.  In  their  lives,  as  in  the  chronicle 
thereof,  nothing  else  is  vital,  nothing  else  matters. 
We  are  told  that  Majendie  goes  to  business,  and 
Miss  Sinclair  condescends  vaguely  to  tell  us  some 
thing  about  it.  We  are  not  conscious  of  having 
acquired  any  definite  information,  but  feel  sure  that 
we  could  attend  to  it  as  well  as  Majendie  himself, 
so  exclusively  bent  is  he,  first  upon  thawing  out  his 
wife's  frozen  moralities,  and,  later  on,  in  making 
love  to  a  humble  mistress  whom  he  took  to  make 
up  to  him  a  natural  deprivation.  This  book  is  an 
other  and  needless  proof  of  the  feminine  incapacity 
to  make  a  true  picture  of  life  outside  the  realm  of 
sexual  emotion  or  love,  which  is  pretty  apt  to  be 
the  same  thing. 

Therein,  as  I  have  sufficiently  shown,  Miss  Sin 
clair  spares  neither  effort  nor  frankness — she  tells 
us  all  she  knows,  which  is  feminism,  if  not  art.  She 
glorifies  her  sex — THE  WOMAN.  As  she  depicts 
her,  woman  is  the  conqueror.  She  is  the  desire  of 
the  world,  whether  she  will  or  no;  she  is  its  grati 
fication — at  her  own  sweet  pleasure.  Her  body  is  a 
divine  mystery  which  to  regard  physiologically  were 
a  sacrilege:  if  yielded  to  men  at  all,  it  should  be 
given  to  them  only  upon  conditions  that  shall  make 
to  them  for  righteousness.  Man  is  a  poor  worm 
of  the  dust  whom  sovereign  woman  may  or  may 


152  ADVENTURES    IN 

not  of  her  gracious  will  save  from  despair  and 
death.  He  could  be  managed  all  right  (this  is 
evidently  Miss  Sinclair's  reasoning)  if  it  were  not 
for  other  weak  women  who  out  of  sheer  love  and 
pity  (God  bless  them!)  give  him  what  sterner  fe 
male  virtue  denies.  So  it  is  woman  herself,  in  the 
end,  who  interferes  with  the  logically  fatal  outcome 
of  super-feminism.  Little  as  May  Sinclair's  hot 
house  fable  teaches,  it  may  help  us  to  understand 
this  by  the  contrasted  types  of  the  super-feminine 
Anne  and  the  merely  feminine  Maggie.  .  .  . 

Always  the  world  is  lost  and  saved  through  wo 
man!  I  am  myself  so  far  a  child  of  my  era  that 
I  can  not  forbear  ending  with  this  piece  of  super- 
feminine  sentiment.  Tojours  la  femme!  God  help 
us  all:  we  are  delivered  into  her  hand! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  153 


COMTE  AND  CLOTILDE 

I  HAVE  been  been  reading,  not  for  the  first  time, 
the  very  curious  romance  of  Auguste  Comte, 
the  founder  of  Positivism  and  his  affinity,  Clo- 
tilde  de  Vaux.     Doubtless  many  of  my  readers  who 
are  familiar  enough  with  the  name  of  Comte  know 
nothing  of  the  story  referred  to,  and  I  may  be  par 
doned  for  offering  them  a  slight  outline  of  it. 

The  great  Comte  had  settled  the  whole  duty  of 
man  and  he  had  devised  a  religion  vastly  superior 
to  any  in  existence;  but  one  thing  failed  him — the 
love  of  a  woman.  A  little  thing,  but  there  have 
been  very  few  world-saviours  and  creed-founders 
who  could  do  without  it.  I  am  not  sure  but  it  is 
the  essential  principle  of  religion,  as  of  life  itself. 

The  scene  is  at  Paris  in  1845.  Comte  had  been 
during  some  years  separated  from  his  wife  who, 
like  the  wives  of  some  other  great  men,  had  failed 
utterly  to  inspire  or  do  homage  to  his  genius — an 
offence  the  lawyers  call  incompatibility.  He  meets 
Clotilde  de  Vaux,  young,  beautiful,  sympathetic,  with 
the  spiritual  beauty  of  one  foredoomed  to  early 
decline.  She,  too,  is  married  yet  detached,  for  her 
husband  is  in  prison  as  a  defaulter.  Comte  at 
once  sees  in  her  a  woman  who — to  borrow  his  own 


154  ADVENTURES    IN 

scientifically  correct  language — is  "necessary  both 
for  his  personal  happiness  and  the  accomplishment 
of  his  social  well-being." 

A  young  and  lovely  woman  likes  to  be  wooed  in 
such  terms,  perhaps,  but  they  do  not  induce  quick 
action.  During  the  single  year  the  relation  lasted, 
Comte  wrote  his  affinity  one  hundred  and  eighty-two 
letters,  but  though  he  greatly  desired  a  closer  union, 
their  relations  never  went  beyond  the  platonic.  Per 
haps  the  number  of  Comte's  letters,  seeing  that  it 
was  only  a  step  to  the  Rue  Pavee,  illustrates  his 
deficiencies  as  a  lover — he  never  grasped  the  "busi 
ness"  of  the  part. 

Once  indeed  he  was  thrilled  to  his  positivist  mar 
row  with  hope,  when  she  wrote  him : 

"Since  my  misfortunes  my  one  dream  has  been 
that  of  motherhood,  but  I  have  always  promised 
myself  never  to  unite  in  this  step  with  any  man  who 
was  not  exceptionally  worthy  to  comprehend  its 
significance.  If  you  think  that  you  can  accept  all 
the  responsibilities  belonging  to  family  life,  let  me 
know,  and  I  will  consider  it  on  my  part." 

Comte  replied  with  almost  unphilosophic  haste: 
"It  was  with  the  greatest  effort,  my  Clotilde,  that 
I  was  able  to  control  myself  yesterday  from  answer 
ing  your  divine  letter  as  soon  as  I  had  re-read  it 
upon  my  knees  before  your  altar." — He  had  built 
her  an  altar  in  his  house  and  invoked  her  with  pray 
ers  night  and  morning! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  155 

Clotilda  would  have  been  his  probably  had  he, 
instead  of  acting  like  a  philosopher  and  waiting  until 
next  day,  gone  instantly  to  the  Rue  Pavee  and  taken 
her  in  his  arms.  Verily,  unto  few  men  is  it  given 
to  be  great  at  once  in  love  and  philosophy.  Two 
days  afterward,  Clotilde  retracted  her  promise: 
"Pardon  my  impudence.  I  still  feel  that  I  am  pow 
erless  to  exceed  the  limits  of  affection."  And  to  the 
insistent  but  somewhat  geometrical  entreaties  of 
Comte,  she  continued  to  make  but  one  reply:  "I 
am  not  capable  of  giving  myself  without  love.  This 
is  a  demand  you  ought  not  to  make  of  me." 

This  was  in  September,  and  she  died  in  the  fol 
lowing  January  of  that  pulmonary  complaint  which 
seems  consecrated  to  French  heroines.  So  far  as 
we  know,  Comte  never  consoled  himself  in  the  usual 
way  for  her  loss. 

Comte  dedicated  a  code  of  worship  to  Clotilde 
de  Vaux.  Morning,  noon  and  night  he  ceased  not 
during  many  years  to  say  prayers  before  her  "altar," 
intended  to  commemorate  their  everlasting  love. 
Relics  of  her — a  lock  of  her  hair — a  bouquet  of 
artificial  flowers  and  her  letters — were  exposed  on 
the  "altar"  and  became  the  objects  of  unstinted 
veneration  by  the  devotees  of  the  new  faith.  Each 
Wednesday  Comte  knelt  at  her  tomb  in  the  ceme 
tery  of  Pere  Lachaise,  and  every  year,  about  St.  Clo- 
tilde's  day,  he  read  there  a  long  "confession"  of  his 
public  and  private  life. 


156  ADVENTURES    IN 

We  are  told  that,  in  Comte's  view,  these  annual 
confessions  formed  a  progressive  systematization 
of  public  worship  which  he  wished  to  consecrate  to 
his  Clotilde.  These  are  his  words: 

"Since  the  third  anniversary  of  thy  death  I  have 
thus  been  able  to  celebrate  at  the  same  time  both 
thine  unalterable  re-birth  and  my  final  purification. 
Our  expansion  in  the  future  from  year  to  year  will 
specially  consecrate  our  full  identification  with  the 
result  of  the  religious  foundation  in  which  thou  hast 
rendered  me  such  great  assistance.  Under  these 
positive  auspices,  I  have  solemnly  systematized  dur 
ing  the  last  year  thine  irrevocable  incorporation  into 
the  true  'Grand-Being'  (Humanity).  These  suc 
cessive  preparations  have  brought  me  to-day  to  the 
point  of  finally  establishing  thine  actual  worship,  to 
be  henceforth  inseparable  from  universal  religion." 

On  the  seventh  or  St.  Clotilde's  day,  he  inaugu 
rated  "her  universal  adoration";  on  the  tenth  "her 
regular  festival,"  etc.  In  obedience  to  their  mas 
ter's  will,  his  disciples  continued  to  honor  in  her  the 
First  Priestess  of  the  Religion  of  Humanity,  of 
which  Comte  was  the  Anointed  High  Priest.  She 
was  and  remains  to  an  ever-dwindling  number  of 
the  faithful,  the  Positivist  Virgin — for  Comte's  re 
ligious  system  is  a  composite  plagiarism  from  all 
the  creeds. 

Destiny  loves  to  mask  itself  in  trifles.  Had 
Auguste  Comte  gone  hot-foot  to  the  Rue  Pavee  on 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  157 

receiving  that  first  letter  from  Clotilde,  he  might 
have  established  a  genuine  world-creed  in  his  Reli 
gion  of  Humanity,  instead  of  a  cult  known  only  to 
the  curious  few.  The  world  wants  no  barren  Vir 
gin — its  worship  is  for  the  Madonna  and  the  Child. 


15.8.  ADVENTURES    IN 


BILL 

WE  call  him  Bill,  first,  because  that  is  not 
the  name  given  him  by  his  godfathers 
and  godmothers,  and  second,  because  it 
seems  to  denote  the  bunch  of  qualities  which  have 
made  him  a  Problem. 

And  this  Problem  is,  what  shall  we  do  with  Bill? 

He  is  just  turned  fifteen,  a  larruping  lad,  well 
grown,  with  heavy  chestnut  hair,  wide  blue-gray 
eyes  and  solid  white  teeth  like  a  young  bull  terrier's 
— good  to  look  at,  but  hopeless  as  a  Speculation. 
He  is  too  strong  to  sit  in  school  over  his  books  and 
too  weak — though  he  scorns  the  thought — to  be  put 
to  work.  His  teachers  finally  solved  their  end  of 
the  Problem — they  expelled  Bill.  But  that  did  not 
help  us  a  little  bit — in  fact,  ever  since  they  sent  him 
home,  Bill  has  become  a  more  terrible  Problem 
than  before. 

I  think  he  smokes,  but  he  denies  it  with  an  ear 
nestness  that  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  offering 
violence  to  the  Spirit  of  Truth. 

He  goes  to  the  Moving  Pictures  as  often  as  he 
can  raise  the  Price  from  his  kind  Mother — which 
is  as  often  as  she  can  spare  it,  and  oftener. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  159 

He  reads  the  Lurid  Fiction  in  which  his  age  de 
lights — the  only  kind  of  mental  exercise  that  appeals 
to  him. 

He  cultivates  tender  relations  with  stray  dogs, 
usually  of  the  mongrel  kind,  and  has  added  the 
Pound-keeper  to  my  list  of  daily  cares. 

He  bears  an  unaccountable  grudge  against  door 
knobs  and  gates  and  everything  wrenchable — which 
makes  a  sizable  figure  in  the  domestic  budget  and 
also  involves  me  with  my  neighbors. 

He  has  a  sublime  contempt  for  Girls  and  younk- 
ers  of  timid  spirit. 

Naturally,  Bill's  education  is  fearfully  in  arrears. 
He  is  not  a  dull  boy  and  his  masters  tell  me  that 
old,  old  story,  that  if  he  would  only  apply  himself 
he  would  lead  his  classes.  Rather,  they  used  to 
tell  me  that — they  have  now  washed  their  hands  of 
him.  Maybe  they  are  not  performing  their  full 
measure  of  Duty  in  expelling  Bill  because  he  played 
hookey  often,  was  still  oftener  tardy,  fell  down  in 
his  lessons,  used  his  hard  young  fists  in  settling  recess 
disputes,  and  was  always  as  uneasy  during  school 
hours  as  an  Imp  of  Satan  in  a  holy-water  font.  I 
don't  know — there  is  the  System !  But  it  gave  me 
a  bad  feeling  about  the  heart  to  see  him  come  home 
with  his  head  hanging,  branded  Incorrigible.  I 
shared  his  sentence  and  my  sorrow  was  more  than 
he  could  understand,  though  it  seemed  to  touch  his 
wild  heart.  Poor  Bill! 


160  ADVENTURES    IN 

It  now  occurs  to  me  vaguely  that  our  much  boasted 
Public  School  System  might  be  improved  as  regards 
its  dealing  with  boys  of  the  Bill  kind.  In  this  re 
spect  it  seems  to  be  mainly  successful  in  dodging 
responsibility.  No  doubt  I  am  wrong  and  not  com 
petent  to  hold  an  opinion  in  the  matter.  Anyway, 
Bill's  teachers,  backed  up  by  the  Principal,  declare 
they  have  done  with  the  Problem  and  that  it  is  now 
up  to  his  parents.  Ah,  I  know! 

Perhaps  the  root  of  Bill's  trouble  is  excess  of  the 
Red  Corpuscle;  too  much  health  and  a  kind  of  en 
ergy  that  does  not  agree  with  books  and  tasks. 
Nature  is  more  to  blame  for  the  Problem  than  the 
wise  men  of  the  Public  School  System  would  allow. 
Yet  I  who  have  known  sickness  should  not  care  to 
see  Bill  a  puny  lad,  shrinking  from  rude  sports  and 
sitting  in  a  corner  with  his  knees  gathered  up  and 
head  intent  over  a  lesson.  Indeed,  as  between  Bill 
and  a  Book,  I  would  have  to  take  Bill — and  yet  the 
Problem  is  heavy  on  my  heart.  For  the  days  are 
going  by  and  he  is  losing  that  which  should  furnish 
him  against  the  years.  What  shall  we  do  with 
Bill?  .  .  . 

But  there  is  good  stuff  in  Bill,  though  his  teach 
ers,  declining  responsibility  and  mainly  concerned 
to  draw  their  salaries  on  the  easiest  terms,  could 
not  plumb  their  way  to  it.  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
thank  them  for  sending  him  home,  for  not  long  af 
ter,  as  he  was  loafing  about  the  house  one  morning, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  161 

his  little  sister  broke  through  the  ice  in  the  river  at 
the  foot  of  our  garden.  A  large,  robust  man  stood 
on  the  shore  within  a  few  yards  of  the  struggling 
child  and  shouted  quite  earnestly  for  help.  Bill — 
God  bless  him ! — never  stopped  a  second,  but  took 
down  the  bank  in  five  leaps,  landing  boots  and  all 
in  the  river  where  it  was  three  feet  over  his  head. 
And  he  handed  the  little  girl  out,  on  her  coming  up 
the  second  time,  to  the  large,  robust  man,  who  got 
his  feet  very  wet,  but  was  described  in  the  village 
paper  as  a  Hero ! 

Yes,  there  is  good  stuff  in  Bill,  the  kind  of  soul- 
stuff  which  the  Public  School  System  makes  no 
account  of  when  figuring  out  the  claims  of  a  boy  to 
be  Fired.  Quality  that  is  never  too  common  and 
which  perhaps  a  Better  System  might  take  into  con 
sideration  ere  disbarring  a  lad  from  his  rightful 
chance  with  his  fellows.  Maybe,  since  the  most 
admirable  Systems  are  now  and  then  changed  or 
amended — and  sometimes  even  pitched  to  Hell  alto 
gether — maybe,  I  say,  the  day  will  come  when  no 
prig  of  a  schoolmaster,  studious  of  his  own  Comfort 
and  Dignity,  shall  dare  to  take  away  a  boy's  first 
chance  in  life  and  block  the  road  of  earliest  oppor 
tunity,  for  the  terrible  offence  of — being  a  boy! 

That  is  my  humble  hope,  but  meantime  it  affords 
no  help  for  the  Problem — What  shall  we  do  with 
Bill? 


1 62  ADVENTURES    IN 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SEA 

IT  is  said  that  once  at  least  in  every  real  boy's 
life  the  call  of  the  sea  comes  to  him,  and  if  his 
home  anchorage  be  not  very  fast  and  snug  in 
deed,  he  is  bound  to  obey  it  by  hook  or  crook.  Less 
romantically,  it  is  also  true,  that  this  summons  of 
the  deep  has  helped  to  solve  many  a  knotty  domes 
tic  problem,  besides  keeping  in  commission  that 
perennial  stock  of  "gentlemen  adventurers,"  lacking 
which  the  poetry  and  business  of  the  seven  seas 
could  not  be  carried  on.  I  may  as  well  admit  that 
the  call  seems  to  have  worked  a  happy  result  in  the 
case  of  our  Bill,  concerning  whom  my  readers  have 
heretofore  heard  something.  Yet  now  that  he  is 
properly  articled  and  gone  from  us,  and  we  shall 
not  see  him  for  many  weeks,  with  half  a  world  of 
tossing  water  between  him  and  his  home,  I  some 
times  wish  there  might  have  been  another  way. 

If  any  harm  should  ever  come  of  it  I  shall  have 
to  blame  it,  in  part,  to  this  passage  in  a  book  very 
dear  to  both  Bill  and  me: — 

"Think  of  this  wine,  for  instance,"  said  old  Sol, 
"which  has  been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm 
not  able  to  say  how  often,  and  has  been  once  around 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  163 

the  world.  Think  of  the  pitch-dark  nights,  the 

roaring  winds,  and  rolling  seas  !" "The  thunder, 

lightning,  rain,  hail,  storms  of  all  kinds,"  said  the 
boy. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon — "that  this  wine  has 
passed  through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creak 
ing  of  timbers  and  masts;  what  a  whistling  and  howl 
ing  of  the  gale  through  ropes  and  rigging!" 

"What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with 
each  other  who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to 
furl  the  icy  sails  while  the  ship  rolls  and  pitches  like 
mad!"  cried  his  nephew. 

"Exactly  so,"  said  Solomon,  "has  gone  on,  over 
the  old  cask  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  the 
Charming  Sally  went  down  in  the " 

"In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  night;  five  and 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain's  watch 
stopped  in  his  pocket;  he  lying  dead  against  the 
main-mast — on  the  fourteenth  of  February,  seven 
teen  forty-nine!"  cried  Walter,  with  great  anima 
tion. 

"Ay,  to  be  sure!"  cried  Sol,  "quite  right.  Then 
there  were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard; 
and  all  hands  (except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant, 
two  seamen  and  a  lady,  in  a  leaky  boat)  going  to 
work  to  stave  the  casks,  got  drunk  and  died  drunk, 
singing  'Rule  Britannia'  when  she  settled  and  went 
down,  and  ending  with  one  awful  scream  in  chorus." 

"And  when,"  said  old  Sol — "when  the  Polyphe 
mus " 

"Private  West  India  trader;  burden,  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  tons;  captain,  John  Brown  of  Dept- 
ford;  owners,  Wiggs  &  Co.,"  cried  Walter. 

"The  same,"  said  Sol;  "when  she  took  fire,  four 


1 64  ADVENTURES    IN 

days'  sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbor, 

in  the  night " 

"There  were  two  brothers  on  board,"  interposed 
his  nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud;  "and 
there  not  being  room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only 
boat  that  wasn't  swamped,  neither  of  them  would 
consent  to  go,  until  the  elder  took  the  younger  by 
the  waist  and  flung  him  in.  And  then  the  younger, 
rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out,  'Dear  Edward,  think 
of  your  promised  wife  at  home.  I'm  only  a  boy. 
No  one  waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap  down  into  my 
place/  and  flung  himself  into  the  sea!" 

Was  it  this  that  decided  our  Bill's  vocation,  or 
was  it  not  rather  that,  being  the  right  sort  of  a  boy, 
he  had  reached  the  age  when  the  sea  lays  its  potent 
spell  on  such  youngsters?  Probably  both  these 
things  are  true,  but  there  is  much  in  the  heart  of  a 
boy  that  the  wisest  man  can  not  fathom.  I  only 
know  that  when  I  told  Bill  I  would  not  oppose  his 
wish  he  seemed  more  content  than  I  had  ever  known 
him,  and  I  noticed  that  for  some  nights  thereafter 
he  slept  with  clenched  fists: — Bill  had  reached  the 
Age  of  Purpose. 

But  other  things  impelled  our  Bill  to  listen  to  the 
far-off,  urgent  voice  of  the  sea,  and  chief  among 
these  was  his  chronic  difficulty  with  his  teachers. 
Never  was  a  boy  harder  to  keep  at  school;  never 
one  with  whom  books  and  tasks  less  agreed.  I'm 
told  it  is  one  of  the  commonest  troubles  in  the  world 
with  boys  of  the  Bill  kind,  but  somehow  I've  never 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  165 

been  able  to  get  a  good  understanding  of  it.  Espe 
cially  as  Bill's  father  (whom  I  knew  very  well  as  a 
Boy)  while  never  his  teachers'  Pride  or  a  Model 
in  any  respect,  yet  was  no  great  hater  of  books  and 
kept  up  his  end  without  too  much  urging.  Bill  never 
fully  believed  in  the  existence  of  that  Boy,  and  could 
not  be  moved  to  emulate  him. 

As  I  have  said,  Bill  was  anything  but  studious 
(except  of  literature  of  the  "Deadwood  Dick"  and 
"Old  Sleuth"  type),  and  I  can  easily  remember  the 
number  of  times  I  have  caught  him  with  task-book 
in  hand.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  not  a  dolt  and 
he  had  too  much  pride  to  pass  for  one,  so  he  man 
aged  to  stand  fairly  well  in  his  classes  when  he  went 
to  school.  I  suspect  that  the  full  tale  of  his  truancy 
is  known  only  to  God  and  his  mother,  and  neither 
is  in  the  habit  of  confiding  such  matters  to  me.  His 
teachers  declared  Bill  "impossible,"  which  perhaps 
meant  that  his  case  required  a  little  original  treat 
ment,  not  provided  in  our  admirable  public  school 
discipline.  However,  it  is  not  for  me  to  criticise 
his  teachers,  having  fallen  down  on  the  job  myself. 
There  was  perhaps  only  one  way  to  conquer  Bill 
and  make  a  regulation  good  boy  of  him,  and  that 
was  to  hammer  him  into  submission.  But  I  had  had 
too  much  of  that  sort  of  thing  in  my  own  boyhood, 
and  I  couldn't  pass  it  on  to  Bill.  Oh,  I  did  make 
one  or  two  half-hearted  attempts,  which  I  don't  like 
to  recall,  only  to  convince  myself  that  God  had  not 


1 66  ADVENTURES    IN 

given  me  a  son  for  that,  and  also  that  I  was  punish 
ing  my  own  soul  far  more  than  the  boy's  body — he 
used  to  laugh  about  it  to  his  mother!  Spare  the 
rod  and  save  the  parent,  I  say. 

Well,  as  I  told  you,  the  sea,  which  is  much  wiser 
than  parents  or  school-teachers  and  which  has  been 
attending  to  the  matter  a  long,  long  time,  took  this 
trouble  off  our  hands.  It  happened  several  months 
ago  when  we  were  living  in  the  great  city  of  New 
York  and  the  problem  of  Bill  had  reached  its  most 
acute  stage  of  anxiety.  What  with  vaudeville 
shows,  coon  songs,  crap-shooting  and  cigarettes  to 
draw  off  his  surplus  energy,  besides  the  regular  daily 
fights  to  keep  up  his  standing,  it  began  to  look  as 
though  Bill's  future  might  be,  to  borrow  his  own 
simple  language,  a  fifty  to  one  shot  for  the  blink 
house. 

And  yet  Bill  was  just  a  real  boy,  half  through  his 
sixteenth  year  and  fairly  crazy  to  be  a  man;  hard  as 
nails  and  able  to  account  for  himself  in  any  dispute 
peculiar  to  his  age.  Tolerably  good-looking,  with 
a  frank  smile  out  of  wide-open  blue-gray  eyes  that 
explained  his  mother's  partiality  and  will  perhaps 
carry  him  farther  than  his  real  merits  or  his  inner 
sense  of  righteousness.  Well  set  up,  of  fair  height 
and  still  growing,  with  a  supple  command  of  every 
limb  and  joint.  All  in  all  (though  I  say  it  who 
shouldn't)  too  fine  a  lad  to  let  drift  to  the  world's 
wastage,  without  making  a  sterner  fight  of  it.  And 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  167 

on  this  fight  I  was  tensely  resolved,  when  the  sea 
spoke  up  for  Bill,  and  I  saw  in  his  young  eyes  the 
light  that  has  lured  so  many  a  brave  lad  from  tender 
arms  and  clinging  lips  unto  the  romance  and  won 
der  of  the  Great  Deep. 

But  these  are  my  thoughts,  if  you  please — not 
those  of  Midshipman  Bill,  now  firmly  holding  his 
sea  legs  on  the  good  ship  St.  Mary's,  Commodore 
Hanus  commanding,  which  I,  unskilled  in  navi 
gation,  conjecture  to  be  at  this  writing  not  more 
than  two  or  three  days'  sail  off  Plymouth.  (Bill 
was  a  good  deal  set  back  that  his  first  cruise 
would  not  be  to  the  China  Seas,  and  a  run  to  either 
Pole  would  not  have  been  far  wide  of  his 
reckoning.) 

The  St.  Mary's  is  a  sailing  vessel  and  one  of  the 
stanchest  on  the  seven  seas,  which  she  has  voyaged 
more  than  half  the  years  of  her  gray-headed  Com 
modore.  Her  cadets  are  mostly  graduated  for  the 
merchant  marine,  and  they  are  picked  with  care 
from  a  host  of  candidates  offered  by  the  schools  of 
New  York.  No  boy  is  taken  against  his  will,  for 
the  Nautical  School  is  not  in  any  sense  a  reforma 
tory,  and  the  standard  of  fitness  is  such  as  to  admit 
only  good  material.  I  mention  this  in  order  to  cor 
rect  the  impression  that  the  school  is  a  dumping 
ground  for  derelicts.  The  tests  are  both  physical 
and  academic,  and  the  term  is  for  three  years.  This 
fine  opportunity  is  provided  by  the  city  of  New 


1 68  ADVENTURES    IN 

York,  which  bears  all  the  cost,  excepting  the  charge 
of  each  boy's  outfit,  etc. 

With  Bill  on  the  St.  Mary's  there  are  an  even 
hundred  of  as  fine  and  clean  and  hopeful  lads  as 
ever  went  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and  their  Cap 
tain's  heart  is  of  the  American  oak.  They  are  well 
taught  the  usual  branches  of  a  sound  English  educa 
tion,  together  with  all  that  pertains  to  seamanship 
and  navigation.  But  manliness,  courage,  discipline, 
self-reliance  and  self-denial — these  are  the  better 
part  of  their  schooling.  I  am  not  sure  the  colleges 
give  more  in  the  way  of  real  education. 

So,  here's  a  health  to  the  gallant  Commodore 
Hanus,  his  right  hand,  First  Officer  Marsden,  and 
the  crew  of  the  good  ship  St.  Mary's,  and  to  all 
young  tars  aboard,  no  less  than  mine.  May  the  old 
gray  sea  that  goes  ever  whispering  about  the  world, 
stealing  away  the  hearts  of  simple  lads,  have  called 
them  to  no  worse  fate  than  a  prosperous  cruise  and 
a  safe  voyage  Home ! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  169 


EXIT  BILL 

THE  call  of  the  sea  for  Bill  turned  out  to  be 
a  false  alarm,  as  it  were,  but  the  fault  was 
not  so  much  that  of  the  sea  as  of  Bill  him 
self.  I  am  fairly  well  reconciled  to  it  now,  though 
for  a  long  time  I  liked  to  think  of  him  as  a  Trig 
Officer  on  the  quarter  deck,  and  my  imagination 
even  went  so  far  as  to  picture  him  a  Commodore 
in  his  country's  Navy.  These  things  were  not  to 
be,  I  daresay.  There  never  was  a  Seaman  in  our 
family  that  I  heard  of,  and  though  my  father  taught 
Navigation  and  the  Higher  Mathematics,  he  could 
not  have  steered  a  tub  on  a  duck  pond. 

Fate  has  these  things  in  charge,  I  suppose,  and 
there  is  something  in  a  boy's  head  that  upsets  all 
the  best-laid  plans  of  his  Elders.  I  humbly  admit 
that,  though  I  long  thought  myself  Master  of  the 
situation,  Bill  did  with  me  as  he  liked.  Maybe  he 
will  remember  this  when  he  is  as  old  as  I  am,  and 
be  merciful  toward  his  own  Boy. 

That  one  voyage  of  Bill's  will  not  soon  be  forgot 
ten,  and  his  sisters  always  refer  to  it  in  Terms  of 
Romance.  As  mementos  of  it  (though  indeed  she 
needs  none)  the  Mother  has  carefully  put  away  a 


170  ADVENTURES    IN 

bunch  of  picture  postal-cards  from  various  Foreign 
places  and  a  good  likeness  of  the  lost  Commodore — 
I  should  say  Bill — in  his  natty  cadet's  uniform.  The 
romance  of  the  experience  failed  to  impress  Bill — 
he  was  too  young  and  he  had  read  too  little  to  care 
much  for  London  and  the  Tower  and  Westminster 
Abbey,  etc.,  which  to  see  his  father  at  Bill's  age 
would  have  risked  something.  What  he  chiefly  re 
membered  was  his  four-hour  Watches,  weary  enough 
to  a  young  lad  getting  his  growth,  who  had  ever 
slept  his  fill  at  home;  the  petty  tyranny  which  the 
uold  mugs,"  or  cadets  of  one  year's  standing,  prac 
tise  on  the  new  recruits ;  the  swabbing  and  polishing 
and  sail-mending  and  all  the  endless  tasks  that  go 
to  make  up  the  excellent  discipline  of  the  school-ship. 
But  I  guess  the  thing  which  mostly  bit  into  Bill's 
heart  was  the  thought  of  Home  and  Mother  that 
weakens  the  stoutest  lads. 

From  London  and  Portsmouth  they  sailed  away  to 
the  West  Indies  and  getting  into  tropical  waters, 
there  was  a  lowering  of  the  diet,  which  caused  an 
outbreak  of  boils  among  the  hundred  cadets.  To 
Bill  this  still  appears  the  most  remarkable  event  of 
the  cruise.  Often  as  I  try  to  draw  him  out  on  the 
strange  sights  he  must  have  seen  by  sea  or  shore,  he 
never  fails  to  lead  me  back  to  his  Boils.  And  now 
I  think  it  was  the  Boils  and  the  fear  of  a  repetition 
of  that  painful  experience  which  cut  off  our  family 
from  hopes  of  a  Commodore. 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS  171 

Discipline  was  the  rock  on  which  Bill  had  foun 
dered  at  school,  and  the  same  thing  blotted  out  that 
gallant  picture  which  I  had  long  carried  in  my  mind 
of  a  future  Naval  Commander.  The  St.  Mary's 
weathered  home  in  due  time  and  with  it  Bill,  looking 
like  a  real  sailor,  rolling  gait,  hitch  and  all;  bettered 
in  every  way,  as  I  thought,  by  his  first  cruise. 

With  the  ship  in  harbor  at  New  York,  Bill  had 
every  week-end  at  home,  and  his  way  led  right  across 
Fourteenth  Street  to  the  Jersey  Ferries.  In  that 
short  stretch  of  the  Big  Town,  there  were  more  real 
Wonders  to  Bill's  young  eyes  than  he  had  glimpsed 
in  foreign  parts.  Talk  about  monsters  of  the  deep, 
here  were  museum  barkers,  snake-charmers,  tattooed 
men,  bearded  ladies,  and  some  without  beards  who 
might  be  far  more  dangerous  to  a  simple  lad.  Then 
the  Nickleodeons,  where  you  heard  the  latest  coon 
songs  and  saw  funny  or  almost  wicked  things  by 
peeping  into  a  machine  and  turning  a  knob;  and  the 
Continuous,  where  the  acts  and  jokes  were  simply 
great,  though  they  did  seem  a  good  deal  alike;  and 
best  of  all,  the  loveliest  Fairies,  without  any  clothes 
to  speak  of — wonderfully  like  Girls,  too — who 
danced  bewitching  dances  while  seeming  to  look  al 
ways  at  Bill,  and  over  and  above  the  rest  of  their 
bewildering  performance,  gave  the  boy  Something 
to  think  about  until  he  came  again. 

Some  or  all  of  these  things  cast  a  spell  upon  Bill 
— poor  young  blunderer  in  a  land  of  sham  enchant- 


1 72  ADVENTURES   IN 

ment;  and  as  a  result,  he  was  led  into  relaxation  of 
his  proper  Nautical  form.  Then  followed  repri 
mands,  gentle  at  first,  until  soon  Bill  found  himself 
up  against  the  sharp  edge  of  discipline.  But  the 
call  of  Fourteenth  Street  was  just  then  more  potent 
in  Bill's  ears  that  that  of  the  sea.  Alas,  to  how 
many  older  and  wiser  than  he  is  not  temptation 
stronger  than  the  voice  of  duty!  Upon  a  further 
breach  of  discipline,  in  which  several  of  the  lads 
participated,  but  of  which  Bill  alone  willingly  suf 
fered  himself  to  be  made  the  scapegoat,  the  blow 
fell.  Bill  was  not  actually  dismissed,  however,  and 
yet  it  amounted  to  something  like  that :  I  was  merely 
asked  to  withdraw  him.  The  distinction  is  less  con 
solatory  to  me  than  to  Bill.  .  .  . 

Now  here's  a  curious  thing  that  ought  to  be 
noted  by  all  hazing  judges  and  all  disciplinarians 
high  and  low.  Very  soon  after  Bill  was  thus  cut  off 
from  the  career  upon  which  we  had  set  our  hearts 
for  him — the  officers  admitted  that  there  was  noth 
ing  really  wrong  with  the  boy — I  began  to  see  in 
him  that  change  when  a  lad  ceases  to  be  the  sport 
of  his  ungoverned  impulses — in  short,  the  dawning 
of  reason  and  judgment.  Had  his  superiors  used  a 
little  more  forbearance,  had  they  given  him  the  sav 
ing  one  more  chance,  who  knows  but  that  our  glori 
ous  vision  of  the  Commodore  would  one  day  be  ful 
filled?  .  .  . 

I  am  not  sure  that  his  regrets  were  very  deep  (re- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  173 

membering  the  Boils)  for  he  can  keep  a  close 
mouth;  but  he  went  about  thoughtfully  and  in  a  new 
way  for  him — it  was  the  first  real  fall  that  life 
had  taken  out  of  Bill. 

But  bless  me,  that  was  over  a  year  ago,  and  the 
same  Bill  no  longer  walks  the  earth — more's  the 
pity,  I  think  sometimes,  for  there  is  loss  and  gain  in 
all  changes.  Instead  of  that  wild  scapegrace,  ready 
for  any  prank  or  mischief,  we  have  a  sedate  young 
man  who  creases  his  pants,  wears  a  high  collar, 
looks  much  at  himself  in  the  glass,  uses  a  Gem  Junior 
solicitously  on  a  faintly  stubbled  chin,  and  has  be 
come  interesting  to  Girls.  Bill  is  in  truth  almost  a 
Man,  and  we  dare  not  take  the  old  freedoms  with 
him.  So  far  as  we  are  concerned,  he  is  done  with 
Literature  and  has  commenced  Life,  with  a  fair 
prospect  of  making  his  way  in  the  world. 

Of  course,  I'm  not  sorry  that  the  old  vexatious 
problem  of  Bill  is  thus  happily  working  itself  out. 
And  yet  ...  and  yet  ...  that  Commodore! 


174  ADVENTURES    IN 


THE    OTHER    FACE 

EVERYBODY  has  seen  the  puzzle-picture 
called  "Find  the  Other  Face,"  or  "Look  for 
her  Mother,"  or  words  to  that  effect — the 
label  really  doesn't  matter,  the  picture  being  the 
thing. 

So  popular  is  it  that  you  will  see  it  in  the  window 
of  'most  any  art-shop,  and  quite  often  it  is  given  as 
a  supplement  with  the  Sunday  paper.  Then  the 
children  puzzle  over  it,  while  the  head  of  the  fam 
ily,  perhaps,  looks  on  with  a  sad  but  eloquent  smile, 
and  his  better  half  indulges  in  the  sniff  disdainful. 

The  picture  is  usually  that  of  a  pretty  girl  shown 
in  profile,  which,  after  you  have  looked  at  it  long 
enough,  changes  marvellously  into  the  likeness  of  an 
ugly  old  woman — the  object  of  the  artist  being  to 
make  the  contrast  as  striking  as  possible.  The  deli 
cate  young  face,  with  its  soft  lines  and  curves  and 
dimples,  vanishes  as  if  by  magic,  and  in  its  place  you 
see  the  visage  of  a  toothless,  ancient  hag,  breathing 
a  curse,  as  it  were,  where  beauty  just  has  been. 

As  a  bit  of  human  satire,  nothing  could  be  more 
effective,  but  it  is  so  repulsive  and  forbidding  that  I 
have  to  wonder  at  its  popularity.  Maybe  the  ex- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  175 

planation  is  that  most  people  fail  to  grasp  the  deeper 
meaning  of  it,  looking  upon  it  merely  as  an  odd  ca 
price  of  the  artist. 

We  read  that  among  the  ancient  Egyptians  the 
process  of  embalming  the  dead  was  divided  among 
several  experts — I  dare  not  call  them  artists.  To 
one  of  these  fell  the  office  of  removing  the  intestines 
of  the  subject — a  disagreeable  duty,  but  very  essen 
tial  to  the  success  of  the  operation.  The  people 
looked  upon  this  particular  act  with  the  greatest  ab 
horrence,  and  the  unlucky  man  who  had  to  perform 
it  not  seldom  barely  escaped  with  his  life.  Nearly 
always  he  had  to  run  for  it,  quite  careless  where  he 
threw  his  tools. 

Something  like  this  is  the  usual  fate  of  the  man 
who  dares  to  tell  an  unpleasant  truth — it  may  pass 
uncontradicted,  but  he  will  be  hated  for  telling  it. 
We  know  of  such  things,  but  we  are  afraid  to  think 
of,  not  to  say  look  at  them;  and  he  who  forces  us  to 
gaze  upon  those  deep-hidden  secrets  of  human  na 
ture  at  which  the  soul  shudders,  must  pay  the  pen 
alty. 

But  to  return  to  our  picture.  Is  it  not  an  artistic 
whim  that  would  have  delighted  Balzac  and  perhaps 
moved  him  to  add  another  chapter  to  the  Comedie 
Humaine, — even  as  the  mere  accidental  glimpse  of 
the  curious  name  "Z.  Marcas"  drew  a  story  from 
his  teeming  imagination? 

Ah,  it  is  easier  to  fancy  than  to  set  down  in  words 


176  ADVENTURES    IN 

what  Balzac  would  have  done  with  our  puzzle- 
picture,  but  perhaps  one  may  hazard  a  hint  or  two, 
founded  upon  long  study  of  the  great  Master,  and 
not  thereby  challenge  too  severe  a  reckoning. 

Of  course,  it's  a  mere  fancy  sketch,  true  only  in 
the  possible — what  man  having  lived  through  such 
an  experience,  could  find  the  heart  to  tell  of 
it!  ... 

Well,  then,  Balzac  would  create  a  young  woman 
to  match  that  fresh  young  face  which,  on  the  first 
glance,  looks  out  at  you  so  sweetly  from  the  picture. 
He  would  show  her  at  the  time  of  her  marriage, 
quite  undeveloped  as  to  character — most  young 
women  are  only  a  hint,  a  sketch,  an  outline  until 
then, — a  fact  that  their  mates  do  not  perhaps  suf 
ficiently  consider.  He  would  marry  her  to  a  young 
man  with  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  a  young 
man  with  faults  a-plenty,  but  yet  loving  and  candid 
and  true. 

There  follows  a  very  short  season  of  happiness — 
which  youth  will  have  on  any  terms,  and  then  the 
life-long  feud  begins.  The  wife  is  timid,  secretive, 
devoid  of  candor,  owing  to  hereditary  influences  of 
which  Balzac  would  offer  a  searching  exposition.  In 
vain  does  the  husband  seek  to  win  her  perfect  confi 
dence — the  fear  of  the  lightest  reproach  closes  her 
mouth  like  a  vise.  She  is,  besides,  totally  without 
judgment  and  worldly  sense,  incapable  of  that  fore 
sight  and  thrift  lacking  which  such  a  household  goes 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  177 

to  wreck.  Though  never  used  to  money,  she  is  quite 
indifferent  to  its  value.  Always  she  acts  on  the  first 
impulse,  which  almost  invariably  misleads  her. 

She  runs  the  little  household  into  debt,  being 
thriftless  and  careless  rather  than  extravagant.  She 
treasures  nothing — even  the  little  gifts  of  her  mar 
riage,  of  small  price  but  dear  in  the  heart's  reckon 
ing,  are  tossed  aside  negligently  and  soon  disappear: 
in  her  hands  it  is  only  a  question  of  brief  time  when 
all  things  disappear.  The  pawnshop  in  part  sup 
plies  the  needed  explanation. 

During  the  early  years  of  their  union  her  one 
idea  is  to  hide  her  debts  from  her  husband,  and  to 
succeed  in  this  she  resorts  to  the  most  foolish,  even 
desperate  expedients.  Of  these  the  most  fatal  is  a 
practice  she  early  falls  into,  of  secretly  borrowing 
money  from  his  men  friends.  They  submit  to  be 
bled  in  silence  for  a  time,  but  finally  one  more  can 
did  than  the  rest  tells  him  the  truth.  Then  his  eyes 
are  opened  at  last  and  discoveries  thicken. 

Here  we  depart  from  Balzac,  for  he  would  have 
been  sure  to  give  the  wife  an  intrigue,  growing  out 
of  her  attempts  to  borrow  money,  but  I  am  suppos 
ing  a  woman  as  virtuous  as  Nora  Helmer.  Which 
perhaps  does  not  help  the  situation:  we  know  how 
to  deal  with  the  wicked,  but  when  the  good  err  we 
lose  our  reckoning. 

The  husband,  I  should  say,  is  a  bit  of  a  poet  and 
literary  man,  of  good  principle,  but  with  something 


178  ADVENTURES    IN 

of  that  inaptitude  in  business  affairs  which  marks 
the  type.  He  leaves  the  burden  of  household  man 
agement  to  his  wife,  content  with  paying  the  bills, 
as  he  thinks.  The  killing  truth  he  comes  to  learn 
soon  enough  is  that,  through  her  maneuvers,  he 
rarely  pays  them — in  full. 

Of  course  he  is  not  strictly  just  and  fair  with  her 
— what  man  ever  is  toward  a  woman?  And  maybe 
he  gets  only  his  dues  for  his  own  weakness  and  cow 
ardice.  The  woman  is  living  her  share  of  the  trag 
edy,  too — let  us  not  forget  that. 

The  feud  now  opens  in  earnest.  During  early 
years  the  wife  pretends  or  perhaps  actually  feels 
repentance  for  her  fault,  which  is  chiefly  due  to 
weakness  of  character;  the  debts  are  paid  over  and 
over  again  by  heroic  effort,  and  the  couple  being 
young  and  under  a  necessity  of  loving,  their  quar 
rels,  frequent  enough,  are  always  made  up  or  do 
not  result  in  lasting  estrangement.  Many  children 
come  to  them, — perhaps  as  a  consequence  of  their 
quarrels:  I  cannot  say,  not  being  as  wise  as  Balzac 
was  in  these  matters. 

With  the  years  the  wife  hardens — that  is  to  say, 
the  second  profile  begins  to  steal  out  in  the  picture. 
Losing  her  youth  and  charm,  she  weeps  less  in  their 
differences, — which  never  cease,  owing  to  the  same 
old  cause  chiefly, — and  fights  back  like  a  virago. 
They  lead  each  other  often  to  the  door  of  Hell, — 
and  still  they  go  on  under  the  yoke. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  179 

But  love  and  hate  can  dwell  in  the  same  house, 
strange  to  say,  and  this  woman  frequently  declares 
her  love  for  the  man  whom  she  is  hounding  to  death, 
and  protests  the  fidelity  with  which  she  has  kept  her 
marriage  vows.  Indeed,  she  becomes  furiously  jeal 
ous  when  he  ceases  to  be  attracted  as  of  old  by  her 
person — the  one  powerful  chain  by  which  she  has 
hitherto  held  him. 

And  yet  a  little  more  the  other  face  cuts  into  the 
picture. 

So  the  feud  goes  wearily  on.  The  husband,  finally 
giving  up  all  hope  of  reforming  her  or,  at  least, 
ridding  her  of  those  fatal  propensities  which  have 
wrecked  their  happiness,  becomes  violent  and  brutal 
in  their  quarrels,  saying  the  harshest  words,  flinging 
the  bitterest  taunt,  dealing  with  her  as  the  enemy  of 
his  peace  and  of  his  life.  She  repays  him  in  the 
same  coin,  and  at  such  times  seems  to  be  grimly  con 
tent  at  her  power  to  call  forth  all  that  is  evil  in  the 
man.  And  always  she  feels  herself  justified  in  the 
resistance  upon  which  she  is,  as  ever,  stubbornly  de 
termined. 

The  lineaments  of  that  other  face  darken  in  the 
picture,  and  are  sometimes  lit  up  with  the  lurid  hues 
of  Hell! 

The  husband  reaches  the  age  when  a  man  either 
plays  his  best  hand  or  slinks  beaten  from  the  Game 
of  Life — the  time  of  all  times  when  he  needs  the 
support  and  inspiration  of  a  home  warm  with  love 


i8o  ADVENTURES    IN 

and  wrapt  with  security,  whence  he  may  sally  forth 
brave-hearted,  though  with  the  gray  in  his  hair,  to 
fight  the  best  battle  of  all. 

This  man's  ambition  declines;  he  makes  less  and 
less  of  his  talent;  while  he  feels  more  and  more  the 
stigma  of  his  wretched  domestic  life.  He  shuns  his 
friends  because  of  their  knowledge  of  it  (she  has 
taken  care  to  remind  them  from  time  to  time  in  the 
old  way)  ;  and  they  are  glad  enough  to  avoid  him 
for  the  same  reason.  The  man's  youth  is  gone  with 
out  his  having  secured  the  recognition  or  the  reward 
due  to  his  talents  and  once  vigorous  ambition.  His 
health  sinks  under  the  accumulated  burden  of  years 
of  bitterness,  sorrow  and  disappointment.  He  be 
gins  to  have  that  fear  of  the  morrow,  that  dread  of 
responsibility,  that  despair  of  the  future, — in  a 
word,  that  sickness  of  life  which,  when  it  seizes  a 
man,  tokens  very  surely  that  life  will  soon  be  done 
with  him. 

In  this  lamentable  spirit  he  begs  for  a  truce  from 
the  old  disease  that  is  steadily  killing  him,  inch  by 
inch, — but  the  feud  goes  on  just  the  same.  It  seems 
at  length  to  be  a  fell  necessity  of  the  hearth  where 
it  has  so  long  brooded. 

The  horror  of  it  grows  with  the  children's 
growth,  for  the  one  thought  of  the  wife  is  to  win 
them  to  her  side,  to  imbue  them  with  her  spirit  of 
secrecy,  disloyalty  and  resistance.  This  she  does  not 
scruple  to  accomplish  by  tolerating  bad  habits  in 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  181 

them,  by  conniving  at  their  truancy  and  disobedi 
ence,  by  indulging  and  pampering  them  beyond  the 
household  means.  And  the  evil  fruit  of  this  unnatu 
ral  conduct  shows  itself  in  due  time — of  all  the 
curses  of  that  ill-fated  house,  the  heaviest  and  the 
worst.  For  the  father  looks  at  his  alienated  chil 
dren,  and  the  warm  fount  of  love  is  frozen  in  his 
breast  at  seeing  reflected  in  their  young  eyes  the 
thing  which  has  cursed  his  life  and  brought  it  to 
naught.  .  .  . 

Look  now  at  the  picture.  Ah !  the  beautiful  young 
face  is  completely  lost  in  the  black  shadow  of  that 
terrible  visage  behind:  the  eternal  Furies  have  ex 
ecuted  a  masterpiece !  .  .  . 

You  shudder?  Well,  blame  it  to  the  artist.  Only 
such  a  hideous  conception  as  this  could  justify  the 
story  I  have  attempted  to  suggest  in  a  manner,  if 
you  please,  after  Balzac.  It  is  too  horrible,  I  grant 
you.  Let  us  be  thankful  that  I  have  been  only  feign 
ing,  and  that  there  is  no  more  truth  and  substance  to 
my  ghastly  romance  than  there  is — well,  to  that 
other  face  in  the  picture. 


1 82  ADVENTURES    IN 


LILITH 

UNTIL  Balzac  came  there  was  little,  if  any, 
adequate  treatment  of  women  in  fiction.   In 
this  respect  as  in  others,  he  may  be  said  to 
have  founded  the  modern  novel  of  life  and  man 
ners,  which  has  not  advanced  beyond  him,  save  in 
minor  details  of  style  and  treatment. 

A  false  sentiment  of  delicacy  and  an  overstrained 
chivalry  conspired  with  a  certain  real  ignorance  to 
prevent  the  writer  of  fiction  before  Balzac  from 
dealing  honestly  or  intelligently  with  his  female 
characters.  Commonly  he  made  of  them  dolls  or 
marionettes  or  endowed  them  with  superhuman  as 
well  as  supra-feminine  graces  and  virtues.  If  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  subject  one  of  them  to  tempta 
tion  and  even  to  ruin,  the  reader  was  asked  to  weep 
as  at  the  fall  of  an  angel.  The  problems  of  sex  (of 
which  we  have  had  latterly  something  too  much) 
were  either  vigilantly  scouted  or  handled  from  the 
standpoint  of  sheer  gallantry.  Such  writers  knew, 
or  thought  they  knew,  only  the  Lady  and  the  Courte 
san — the  Woman  had  not  yet  come  into  artistic 
existence. 

A  marked  survival  of  this  artistic  ineptitude  or 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  183 

conventional  cowardice  is  seen  in  much  of  the  work 
of  Dickens,  too  many  of  whose  female  characters 
are  mere  abstractions  of  the  so-called  domestic  vir 
tues.  Indeed,  outside  his  admirable  Peggottys, 
Sairey  Gamps,  etc.,  it  is  doubtful  if  he  ever  achieved 
the  creation  of  a  single  woman  human  at  all 
points, — say,  like  Becky  Sharp,  the  one  flawless  tri 
umph  of  his  great  rival  Thackeray. 

The  change  for  the  better,  in  truth  and  in  art,  we 
owe  chiefly  to  Balzac,  and  it  is  not  the  least  conquest 
of  his  bold  and  valid  genius.  His  women  are  often 
lovable  and  sometimes,  like  Eugenie  Grandet,  al 
most  angelic,  in  the  older  fashion;  but  their  essen 
tial  humanity  is  always  beyond  dispute.  The  truth 
is  that  as  an  artist  he  loved  Eve  much  but  Lilith 
more;  and  so  his  masterpieces  of  creation  belong 
rather  to  that  sinister  gallery  of  evil  women  which  he 
has  given  to  literature.  On  them  he  lavished  all  the 
powers  of  his  genius,  contending  as  with  God  and 
the  Devil  in  his  work.  That  he  loved  them  beyond 
the  virtuous  ones  is  evident  from  the  extreme  care 
with  which  he  fashioned  Valerie  and  Bette,  those 
perfect  flowers  of  evil.  Had  the  Devil  himself 
made  them,  we  feel  that  he  would  not  have  made 
them  any  different.  They  and  others  from  the  same 
hand  are  the  finest  examples  of  female  wickedness, 
perfectly  within  the  rules  of  nature  and  art,  that 
modern  literature  can  show. 

How  wonderful  are  those  bad  women  of  Balzac! 


1 84  ADVENTURES    IN 

— what  delectable  she-devils !  How  he  loved  to  de 
pict  their  subtle  and  facile  passion  for  evil-doing; 
their  mouths  sweet  with  poisonous  honey  or  green 
with  the  slime  of  hate  and  envy;  their  hearts  cor 
roded  with  rancors  and  foul  with  sated  or  ungrati- 
fied  lust;  the  audacity  and  shamelessness  with  which 
they  affronted  God  and  man  unto  the  end,  or  the 
sublime  hypocrisy  with  which  they  absolved  them 
selves  of  evil.  For  Balzac's  wicked  women,  like 
those  of  the  actual  world,  never  repent.  And  they 
do  not  repent  because  they  know  no  other  way.  Like 
Lilith,  eldest  daughter  of  Satan,  they  make  evil 
their  good,  and  it  is  the  law  of  their  being. 

The  problem  of  depicting  such  wickedness,  of 
showing  the  soul  that  an  evil  woman  is  so  skillful  in 
concealing,  or  the  bad  nature  that  she  has  so  much 
art  and  resource  in  dissembling,  is  one  of  the  most 
difficult  and  formidable  that  can  be  proposed  to  an 
artist.  Yet  Balzac  has  triumphed  in  a  score  of  in 
stances. 

I  have  referred  to  one  or  two  of  the  best  known 
examples,  familiar  to  every  reader.  But  take  one 
rather  more  within  the  lines  of  ordinary  experience 
and  acting  in  less  strongly  dramatized  situations, — 
take  Rosalie  De  Watteville  in  "Albert  Savarus." 
This  is  one  of  Balzac's  quiet  tales  in  which  his  divi 
nation  of  character,  that  quality  in  which  he  excelled 
all  writers,  appears  at  the  highest  value.  The  at 
mosphere  is  without  storm,  yet  tense  and  breathless 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  185 

with  underlying  tragedy.  Rosalie  is  no  less  a  tri 
umph  than  the  daughters  of  Goriot — her  exquisite 
iniquity  is  even  more  fascinating  than  their  self- 
indulgent  vanity  and  vice.  The  book  seems  to  me  a 
most  original  and  profoundly  true  study  of  that  lia 
bility  to  evil,  that  sinning  without  care  or  con 
science,  that  emotionless  cruelty  without  a  pang  or 
an  afterthought,  which  are  characteristic  of  certain 
refined  types  of  female  wickedness. 

Read  the  story — I  cannot  pretend  to  give  you 
even  a  hint  of  it  within  the  limits  of  this  paper.  But 
I  will  tell  you  why  I  like  Mademoiselle  De  Watte- 
ville  so  much  and  think  her  entirely  worthy  of  the 
Master's  hand. 

Because  I,  and  doubtless  you  too,  have  known 
her,  with  her  cold  blue  eyes  in  whose  depths  the  soul 
of  evil  hides  and  lurks,  scarcely  ever  showing  itself; 
with  her  pale  cheek  that  can  dissemble  the  strongest 
passion;  with  her  thin-lipped  mouth,  like  a  knife- 
wound,  that  alone  at  times  betrays  the  unfathom 
able  cruelty  and  wickedness  of  her  heart;  with  her 
shrunken  breasts  wherein  the  warm  tides  of  love  and 
motherhood  never  rise,  as  if  Nature  refused  to  nour 
ish  with  poison  or  to  suffer  one  shoot  to  spring  from 
an  accursed  tree ! 

She  will  steal  and  intercept  letters  intended  for 
others;  she  will  break  the  most  sacred  seals  of  confi 
dence;  she  will  nestle  close  to  the  hearts  of  her  vic 
tims  the  better  to  strike  and  betray;  she  will  destroy 


1 86  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  happiness  of  the  innocent  without  a  qualm;  she 
will  lie,  and  turn  again,  and  lie,  and  double-damn 
and  perjure  herself  over  and  over,  in  order  to  get 
the  evil  satisfaction  that  her  perverted  nature  de 
mands. 

Balzac  knew  the  truth,  which  a  mealy-mouthed 
sentimentalism  would  deny — that  there  are  men  and 
women  who  personify  the  very  principle  of  evil  and 
who  (as  Dickens  says  somewhere)  ought  to  be 
killed  on  sight,  for  the  protection  of  humanity. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  187 


TO  A  LITERARY  CHARACTER 

[For  thirty  years  all  the  most  valuable  material 
in  the  edition  definitive  of  Balzac  and  the  later 
works  of  others,  has  been  directly  or  indirectly  due 
to  M.  de  LovenjouL~\ 

MONSIEUR  Vicomte  de  Lovenjoul, 
Why  does  your  name  my  fancy  rule, 
E'en  like  Vautrin  or  Rastignac, 
Like  Mulquinier  or  Fezensac, 
Till  oftentimes  it  seems  to  me 
I  met  you  in  the  Comedie : 
Dancing  or  dicing,  plotting,  fighting, 
Dazzling  or  daring,  blessing,  blighting? 

Monsieur  Vicomte  de  Lovenjoul, 
Your  servant,  Sir,  is  not  a  fool, 
But  years  in  that  bewild'ring  maze 
A  little  have  perplexed  his  ways, 
And  though  he  kens  it  better  far 
Than  this  dull  world  where  earthlings  are, 
Fain  would  he  know,  for  his  soul's  sake, 
If  you  be  flesh  or  Balzac's  make! 


1 88  ADVENTURES    IN 

Monsieur  Vicomte  de  Lovenjoul, 
I  shall  not  let  my  fancy  cool 
Without  adventuring  just  one 
More  guess — are  you  perhaps  His  SON! 
Still  working  at  the  mighty  plan 
Of  that  great  Devil  of  a  Man; 
Adding  new  stones  unto  the  pile 
Whence  rays  his  enigmatic  smile. 

Monsieur  Vicomte  de  Lovenjoul, 
My  faith,  a  man  you  are — no  ghoul, 
Or  shadow  from  the  haunted  page 
Where  wreaked  he  his  creative  rage; 
A  man  of  courage  high  and  rare 
Such  as  we  seldom  see  but  there; 
Touched  with  a  loyalty  supreme 
Unto  the  Dreamer  and  his  Dream. 

Monsieur  Vicomte  de  Lovenjoul, 
How  found  the  Master  this  good  tool 
To  labor  still,  when  he  was  spent, 
On  his  immortal  monument? 
Thrice  happy  chance ! — Go  on,  brave  Sir, 
Though  he  be  in  the  sepulchre; 
Bring  ever  more  of  that  vast  mind, 
To  please,  to  awe,  to  stun  mankind! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  189 


POTPOURRI 

ROMANCE  is  the  sphinx's  riddle :  realism  is 
the  solution.  Romance  is  a  bride  in  her 
veil  and  orange  flowers :  realism  the  same 
lady  a  year  or  so  afterward  in  curl  papers  and  peign 
oir. 

The  world  which  loves  to  deceive  itself  will  al 
ways  prefer  romance  to  realism.  It  is  by  grace  of 
romance  that  most  marriages  are  made  and,  per 
haps,  most  children  begotten.  Let  the  wiseacres  say 
what  they  will,  in  no  human  relation  is  romance  so 
valuable  as  in  marriage — unhappily  it  is  mostly  be 
fore  marriage.  When  the  veil,  the  illusion  we  name 
romance,  drops  away  from  betwixt  two  persons  who 
have  chosen  the  long  road  together,  then  follows 
what  the  lawyers  call  incompatibility,  and  plain  men 
hell. 

Romance  or  illusion  is  really  the  ideal  state.  If 
the  good  Lord  would  grant  me  one  wish,  and  one 
only,  I  should  ask  Him  to  leave  me  my  illusions — 
that  is,  my  romances. 

Love  is  a  romance,  friendship  a  romance,  and 
when  either  is  maintained  by  two  persons  who  com 
plement  each  other,  then  we  have  the  best  happiness 
that  life  affords. 


1 90  ADVENTURES    IN 

No  doubt  the  world  is  the  more  enamored  of 
romance  that  it  is  actually  so  rare.  This  is  shown, 
above  all,  in  the  preferences  of  reading  people.  Of 
all  sorts  of  literature,  novels  are  by  far  the  most 
popular,  and  among  novels  themselves  the  love 
novel  or  pure  romance  carries  the  palm.  Is  it  any 
wonder?  All  of  us  desire  to  be  loved;  most  of  us 
believe — O  vanitas  vanitatum! — that  we  are  capable 
of  inspiring  the  tender  passion;  and  many  of  us  hug 
the  darling  thought  that  we  have  never  been  loved 
up  to  our  deserts.  In  short,  the  whole  world's  van 
ity  is  engaged  in  favor  of  romance,  and  Nature  abets 
the  conspiracy. 

Look  at  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  who  for  a  time 
divided  the  interest  of  the  English-reading  world, 
and  to  some  extent  still  do  so.  I  have  read  many 
sage  essays  purporting  to  explain  their  comparative 
popularity,  but  not  one  that  really  touched  the  point. 
It  is  this :  Dickens  always  has  been  and  always  will 
be  the  more  popular  writer,  because  he  was  a  great 
romantic.  The  best  of  his  work,  like  much  of  "Cop- 
perfield,"  of  the  "Two  Cities,"  and  the  whole  of 
"Great  Expectations,"  is  pure  romance.  By  this  I 
mean  a  certain  idealization  of  reality  which  Dickens 
either  deliberately  chose  as  his  artistic  method  or 
which,  more  likely,  was  inseparable  from  his  man 
ner  of  "seeing  things."  At  any  rate,  it  gave  him 
an  immense  advantage  with  the  romance-loving 
public. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  191 

Thackeray  suffered  life  too  much  to  be  a  great 
romantic  like  Dickens,  and  so  he  could  not  idealize 
— he  reported.  This  is  true  even  of  "Esmond,"  his 
one  ambitious  attempt  at  romance : — yet  one  remem 
bers  nothing  of  it  better  than  the  quarrels  of  my 
Lord  and  Lady  Castlewood.  A  greater  novelist 
than  Dickens  on  several  counts,  he  was  much  in 
ferior  to  him  in  the  blended  faculty  of  vision  and 
feeling  that  we  call  romance.  This  he  himself  con 
fessed  when  he  said  regretfully,  "I  have  no  head 
above  my  eyes." 

Since  we  are  thus  come  to  it,  let  me  try  to  explain 
the  difference  between  the  romantic  and  the  realistic 
way  of  looking  at  things.  The  quarrels  of  the  ex 
cellent  "Mr.  Dombey"  and  his  beautiful  second  wife 
are  purely  romantic,  not  to  say  theatrical.  But  one 
does  not  suffer  by  them — one  does  not  feel  as  if  one 
must  get  away  somewhere,  out  of  hearing.  A  real 
istic  quarrel  affords  little  artistic  pleasure.  Mr. 
Dickens  never  used  this  method  in  his  art — in  his 
life  he  did  occasionally,  as  when  he  wrote  after  the 
separation  from  his  wife,  that  "either  she  would 
have  driven  him  mad  or  he  would  have  driven  her 
mad."  There  is  nothing  quite  so  forcible  as  this  in 
the  story  of  the  Dombeys — that  is  to  say,  it  does 
not  sin  against  romance. 

Balzac  was  equal  parts  realist  and  romantic,  and 
perhaps  it  is  to  this  union  of  opposite  qualities  that 
he  owes  his  great  distinction.  "The  Lily  of  the  Val- 


1 92  ADVENTURES    IN 

ley"  is  one  of  the  finest  romances  in  the  world,  and 
yet  in  this  charming  tale  the  Comte  de  Mortsauf 
bitterly  tells  his  noble  wife  that  she  is  "a  virgin  at 
his  expense" — a  piece  of  realism  that  Dickens  would 
never  have  permitted  himself.  For  an  English  par 
allel  we  must  turn  to  Thackeray  and  old  Steyne's 
sneer  at  his  daughter-in-law  Lady  Blanche, — that 
"she  had  come  here  to  have  children  and  she  hadn't 
had  them." 

However,  "Vanity  Fair"  (in  spite  of  Amelia)  has 
never  circulated  like  "David  Copperfield" — the  man 
who  wrote  the  first  had  met  the  Furies  and  couldn't 
help  showing  it.  By  the  way,  it  was  the  same  great 
realist  (in  spite  of  himself)  who  wrote  that  "since 
the  author  of  'Tom  Jones'  was  buried,  no  writer 
among  us  has  dared  to  depict  to  his  utmost  power  a 
Man!"  .  .  . 

Certainly  not :  romance  and  the  public  would 
never  stand  for  him. 

II 

IN  his  brilliant  essay  on  Rossini  and  Meyerbeer, 
Heine  pays  his  respects  to  the  professional  crit 
ics  of  the  time  in  terms  that  read  like  a  strict 
indictment  of  their  present-day  successors.     He  de 
scribes  their  "critiques,  composed  in  a  kind  of  argot 
(dialect),  larded  with  technical  expressions  not  fa 
miliar  to  the  generally  cultivated  world,  but  only  to 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  193 

practical  artists,  yet  which  give  to  their  rubbish  an 
air  that  imposes  on  the  multitude." 

The  manners  of  the  music  critics  have  not  im 
proved  since  these  lines  were  written — they  con 
tinue  to  write  in  a  language  that  very  few  under 
stand,  putting  always  the  "shop"  before  sense  and 
sentiment.  Now,  as  then,  they  are  far  more  con 
cerned  to  exhibit  their  verbal  gymnastics  than  to  tell 
us  what  we  really  want  to  hear — in  other  words,  to 
give  us  a  sane,  intelligible  criticism.  They  are  all 
stylists  in  their  own  conceit,  but  somehow  with  all 
their  pretensions  and  straining  for  effect,  they  never 
achieve  literature,  though  they  occasionally  publish 
books.  We  should  indeed  believe  that  nothing  in  the 
way  of  pure  literature  could  be  written  about  music 
or  musicians  were  it  not  for  the  achievement  of  some 
genuine  writers,  and  conspicuous  among  them,  Heine 
himself.  The  press  of  New  York  numbers  a  half- 
dozen  music  critics  who  could  smother  Heine  with 
the  resources  of  their  technical  vocabulary,  and  yet 
their  work  dies  with  each  day's  sun.  As  it  has  been 
said  of  musicians  that  they  form  a  third  sex,  so  it 
may  be  held  of  music  critics  that  they  are  a  class 
sui  generis,  not  amenable  to  literary  laws.  They 
feel  themselves  superior  to  the  public  and  for  this 
reason  the  public  will  have  none  of  them. 

Heine  did  better  than  merely  to  expose  the  pre 
tentious  vanity  of  the  critics  of  his  day — he  showed 
how  a  true  literary  man  could  do  their  office,  as  in 


i94  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  essay  above  mentioned,  or  in  his  famous  descrip 
tion  of  Paganini's  playing,  which  is  worth  all  the 
tons  of  music  criticism  that  have  been  emitted  since 
David  played  on  his  harp  to  the  delight  of  the 
daughters  of  Jerusalem. 

There  is  a  furious  emulation  between  our  dra 
matic  critics  and  the  scribes  of  music.  Both  labor 
to  be  cryptic,  obscure  and  Chinese  in  their  tortuous 
inversions — a  plain  mind  is  quickly  damned  between 
them.  The  vanity  of  these  fellows  will  not  suffer 
them  to  write  a  simple  sentence ;  they  are  constantly 
plucking  your  sleeve  to  marvel  at  them  instead  of 
their  proper  subject.  If  a  distinction  must  be  made, 
the  dramatic  critic  is  the  more  blamable,  since  there 
is  no  shadow  of  warrant  in  his  case  for  abusing  the 
tongue  of  Shakespeare.  It  was  not  so  that  not 
merely  the  best  but  the  best-beloved  critic  that  the 
English  stage  has  ever  known,  won  his  unique  place 
in  letters.  I  wonder  if  our  New  York  critics  ever 
read  Charles  Lamb,  or  if  they  haughtily  set  him 
down  as  an  amateur,  as,  thank  God!  he  was.  In  my 
time  I  must  have  read  acres — whole  townships — of 
newspaper  criticism,  and  of  all  that  I  have  not  re 
tained  a  syllable,  while  the  phrases  of  Lamb  hold 
ever  fast  in  my  grateful  memory.  How  did  this 
man  make  a  classic  of  himself  with  a  few  such  essays 
as  "My  First  Play,"  "The  Comedy  of  the  Last 
(Eighteenth)  Century,"  "On  Some  of  the  Old 
Actors,"  "On  the  Acting  of  Munden,"  etc.?  I  am 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  195 

very  sure  that  if  he  were  alive  to-day,  he  would  not 
get  a  place  beside  the  highly  paid  critics  of  the  New 
York  press.  The  slow  pain  by  which  he  wrought  the 
undying  phrase  would  never  do  for  the  morning 
editions. 


Ill 


HOW  did  Lafcadio  Hearn  suppress  the  natu 
ral  fun  in  him  so  that  it  scarcely  comes  to 
the  surface  of  his  more  finished  and  am 
bitious  work?  There  is  hardly  a  smile  in  all  his  Jap 
anese  books,  or  in  his  earlier  West  Indian  sketches, 
and  yet  the  man's  letters  reveal  him  as  an  exquisite 
humorist — especially  the  little  series  called  "Letters 
from  the  Raven,"  written  mostly  during  his  New 
Orleans  period.  The  fun  in  these  is  often  good  as 
Mark  Twain,  and  the  picture  which  they  offer  of  the 
needy,  trampish,  little  down-at-heel  reporter,  cher 
ishing  his  dreams  of  future  literary  fame  on  next  to 
nothing  a  week;  eating  sometimes  only  once  in  two 
days  but  always  feeding  the  instinctive  hunger  of 
genius;  as  helpless  as  a  child  apparently  and  yet 
making  his  way  with  a  kind  of  elfin  wisdom;  gay 
and  reckless  as  beseems  youth,  whatever  its  portion, 
but  ever  mindful  of  the  feeble  spark  within  that  was 
one  day  to  blaze  up  a  sacred  fire : — here  is  a  picture, 
I  would  say,  at  once  pathetic,  humorous,  fascinating, 
and  human  to  the  marrow :  another  of  those  happy 


196  ADVENTURES    IN 

accidents  that  have  conspired  to  give  this  man  his 
uniquely  individual  place  in  Letters. 

The  particular  charm  of  these  utterly  frank,  boy 
ish,  often  profane  and  always  unrestrained  letters, 
is  the  contrast  which  they  offer  to  Hearn's  later  and 
more  studied  epistles,  and,  of  course,  the  delight 
ful  glimpses  they  afford  of  his  strangely  vagrant  and 
haphazard  life.  How  true  it  is  that  the  artist  must 
suffer  that  the  world  may  enjoy! 

The  "Letters  from  the  Raven"  were  written  to  a 
Mr.  Watkin  in  Cincinnati,  a  kind-hearted  printer 
who  had  befriended  Hearn  during  his  early  years 
in  this  country.  In  their  familiar  intercourse  Hearn 
used  to  call  or  sign  himself  "The  Raven"  in  sport, 
from  his  fondness  for  Poe  and  his  own  fancied  like 
ness  to  the  sable  bird, — which  was  rather  real  than 
fanciful  at  that  time,  with  his  thin  face,  coal  black 
flowing  hair  and  protuberant  eyes.  In  the  book  (as 
published  by  Brentano's),  letters  and  even  post 
cards  are  shown  liberally  sprinkled  with  effigies  of 
the  Plutonian  fowl,  not  badly  drawn  either,  and  they 
add  much  to  the  whimsical  effect  of  the  work. 

Watkin  was  many  years  older  than  Hearn,  a 
bluff,  good-natured  pagan,  but  a  natural  sympathy 
and  something  of  the  same  bookish  taste  united  him 
to  his  queer  little  protege.  He  seems  to  have  been 
one  of  the  few  friends  whom  the  touchy,  suspicious 
Irish  Greek — half  nettle,  half  flower — ever  wholly 
trusted,  or  to  whom  he  gave  himself  without  re- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  197 

serve.  In  literary  power  these  letters  do  not,  of 
course,  compare  with  those  written  many  years  after, 
when  the  man  was  matured,  his  style  perfected  and 
his  reputation  made.  They  are  leaves  from  the 
stripling  tree,  wine  of  the  same  vintage,  though  a  bit 
crude  and  sour.  And  their  biographic  value  is 
marked,  for  when  Hearn  had  reached  port  and 
haven,  like  many  other  artists,  he  hated  to  confess 
the  cruel  hardships  of  the  passage.  Above  all, 
they  help  us  to  make  out  the  human  side  of  Hearn, 
which  certain  critics  deem  to  be  sketchy  and  incom 
plete.  Hence  the  peculiar  charm  of  these  uLetters 
from  the  Raven,"  by  preserving  which  the  "Dear 
Old  Man"  in  Cincinnati,  with  a  prophetic  care  and 
wisdom,  won  for  himself  an  enduring  place  in  the 
life-story  of  Lafcadio  Hearn. 

In  later  years,  when  fame  and  success  had  come  to 
him  from  his  unrivalled  studies  of  Japan,  with  their 
marvellous  interpretation  of  beauty  material  and 
spiritual,  Hearn  was  wont  to  lament  his  inability  to 
translate  reality  into  such  tense,  graphic  and  com 
pelling  fiction  as  Kipling  has  given  us.  Often  his 
artist  soul  was  dissatisfied  with  the  ghostly,  diaph 
anous  dreams  and  visions,  the  shadowing  forth  of 
those  almost  intangible  romances,  those  vague  and 
Buddhistic  conceptions  which  the  West  eagerly  took 
from  his  hand.  But  all  true  art  is  a  oneness  and  the 
last  terms  include  the  first.  Perhaps  it  never  oc 
curred  to  Lafcadio  Hearn  that  he  had  himself  lived 


198  ADVENTURES    IN 

and  recorded  the  kind  of  human  reality  he  was 
wont  to  envy  in  the  work  of  Kipling;  and  that  years 
after  his  death  it  would  be  given  to  the  world  in 
these  "Letters  from  the  Raven." 


IV 


MANY  people  can  not  bear  to  read  "Cou- 
sine  Bette,"  on  account  of  the  appalling 
frankness  and  fidelity  of  its  pictures  of 
passion.  The  book  is,  nevertheless,  one  of  the 
grand  triumphs  of  genius,  and  in  a  special  degree  it 
exhibits  that  extraordinary  power  of  divination 
which  Balzac  possessed  beyond  all  writers.  It  is 
the  capstone  of  the  "Comedie  Humaine,"  that  most 
wonderful  structure  ever  raised  by  a  single  mind. 
It  is  devilish  in  its  utterly  immoral  consistency,  for 
Balzac  made  men  and  women  as  Nature  does  and 
with  no  more  squeamishness — a  Bette  or  a  Madame 
de  Mortsauf,  a  Philippe  Bridau  or  a  Pons,  with  the 
like  impartial  care  and  the  same  joy  of  creation. 
So  the  critics,  and  particularly  the  English  critics, 
whose  literature  has  nothing  like  uCousine  Bette," 
are  mightily  concerned  to  defend  the  moralities 
against  Balzac;  and  hence  they  are  in  the  habit  of 
declaring  his  pictures  of  vice  overcolored  and  his 
personages  wicked  beyond  the  bounds  of  art  and 
truth.  Bette,  they  would  have  us  believe,  is  too 
much  of  a  fiend  for  this  world,  bad  as  it  is;  Valerie  is 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  199 

depraved  beyond  reason  and  Hulot's  licentiousness 
altogether  exaggerated  and  out  of  drawing.  But 
Nature  and  Balzac  knew  better. 


IT  is  true  that  Chatterton  starved,  and  Burns  had 
to  work  as  an  excise  gauger,  and  Poe  never  rose 
to  more  than  Ten  a  week.  All  this  is  very  sad, 
and  it  is  indubitable  that  men  of  means  and  leisure, 
like  Byron  and  Shelley  and  Swinburne,  produce  the 
best  work  as  a  rule,  albeit  there  are  many  exceptions. 
However,  the  drunkard  will  drink,  the  lover  will 
love,  and  the  writer  will  write.  The  literary  instinct 
is  quite  insuppressible — if  it's  in  the  man,  it  must  and 
will  come  out.  I  do  not  believe  that  literature  is 
any  the  poorer  for  its  "mute,  inglorious  Miltons." 
Thieves  and  vagabonds  and  beggars  have  contribu 
ted  a  full  share  to  the  undying  literature  of  the 
world.  The  instinct  of  production  and  the  vanity 
of  authorship  are  among  the  strongest  human  mo 
tives.  Genius  never  fails  to  deliver  itself,  though  it 
must  be  granted  the  conditions  are  too  often  hard 
and  unfavorable.  On  the  other  hand,  if  they  were 
uniformly  easy,  the  world  would  be  glutted  with 
production,  and  perhaps  all  perception  and  appre 
ciation  of  the  higher  literary  values  would  perish. 
Even  as  things  are,  this  danger  is  neither  visionary 
nor  problematic. 


200  ADVENTURES    IN 


VI 

IBSEN  is  very  great  and  perhaps  no  plays,  in  the 
reading,  awaken  a  more  breathless  interest 
than  "Ghosts,"  UA  Doll's  House,"  "Hedda 
Gabler,"  "Rosmersholm"  and  "The  Master 
Builder."  The  construction  of  these  plays  is  the 
acme  of  dramatic  craftsmanship — nothing  super 
fluous  or  irrelevant — the  dialogue  cut  to  the  bones 
and  nerves.  Talkiness  has  always  been  the  curse 
of  the  English  stage  from  the  time  of  Shakespeare 
who  (it  cannot  be  denied)  was  a  terrible  offender 
in  this  respect.  Ibsen  surely  has  no  lack  of  passion, 
the  fiercer  that  we  know  him  to  be  holding  it  in 
check;  for  better  than  any  of  his  predecessors  he 
knows  the  art  of  repression  and  has  the  courage  to 
practise  it.  Some  of  his  most  telling  situations,  his 
most  powerful  climaxes,  are  almost  wordless — little 
more  than  pantomime.  One  reads  the  scene  over 
again  to  find  the  effect  that  is  so  marvellously  sug 
gested  without  speech. 

A  great  and  solitary  figure  in  his  chosen  province 
of  art,  he  has  taught  lesser  men  to  hold  the  stage, 
which  is  fast  slipping  from  his  own  grasp.  In  his 
delirium  Oswald  Aiding  begs  his  mother  to  give  him 
the  sun!  That  was  Ibsen's  need  too: — with  more 
of  the  sun  of  life  in  his  plays,  he  had  gained  a  place 
beside  Shakespeare  and  Moliere. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  201 


VII 

BALZAC  has  a  chapter  in  celebration  of  chas 
tity  or  continence,  which  he  believed  was  an 
essential  condition  of  intellectual  power. 
Like  all  his  pet  theories,  he  urged  it  with  the  utmost 
vehemence.  Once  when  Gautier  had  taken  the  lib 
erty  of  differing  with  him  and  pointed  out  instances 
of  great  writers  noted  for  their  laxity  in  this  respect, 
the  author  of  the  Comedie  Humaine  brushed  away 
the  objection. 

"They  would  have  done  better  work,"  he  said, 
uhad  they  eschewed  venery."  And  the  maximum 
of  indulgence  he  proposed  would  almost  be  par 
doned  to  a  Trappist !  Montaigne  would  have  smiled 
at  the  notion,  holding  as  he  did  that  'twere  easier  to 
live  without  women  absolutely  than  to  put  up  with 
only  one.  But  the  Sieur  de  Montaigne  lived  in  a 
freer  time  and  perhaps  had  a  weakness  for  gallantry. 

It  is  allowed  that  in  this  matter  Balzac's  own 
practice  squared  with  his  precept.  He  was  not  an 
ascetic  nor  a  woman-hater,  and  surely  the  creator 
of  Valerie  Marneffe  was  competent  to  speak;  a  true 
Frenchman,  moreover,  and  one  of  the  greatest  of 
artists.  But  he  was  a  libertine  only  in  the  spending 
of  his  intellectual  powers.  And  who  shall  say  how 
many  volumes  of  the  Comedie  we  owe  to  the  fact 
that  during  most  of  his  creative  period  he  was  con- 


202  ADVENTURES    IN 

tent  (at  least  mainly)  to  pour  out  his  passion  on 
paper  for  a  woman  who  lived  clear  across  the  map 
of  Europe  from  him? 

Balzac  argued  that  the  man  of  One  Idea  can  ac 
complish  anything  possible  to  humanity,  and  he 
showed  how  continence  is  necessary  to  keep  the 
flame  of  pure  creative  power  from  wasting.  (I  do 
not  quote;  the  reader  may  find  the  chapter  in  "Cou- 
sineBette").  Virginity  and  power  were,  in  his 
mind,  almost  the  same  thing. 

Certain  it  is,  at  any  rate,  that  in  the  higher  opera 
tions  of  the  mind  or  the  exercise  of  the  creative 
faculties,  the  very  quintessence  of  the  vital  power  is 
drawn  upon,  and  this  draft  will  not  be  fully  honored 
when  there  are  sources  of  loss  and  waste.  Balzac 
would  have  kept  all  for  the  Idea  and  little  or  noth 
ing  for  venery. 

VIII 

WILLIAM  HAZLITT  was  a  good  writer, 
a  sound  and  original  literary  critic,  some 
thing  of  a  philosopher,  a  stanch  friend 
to  liberty,  and  a  decent  Englishman.     Those  who 
like  him  best  see  most  clearly  his  deficiencies.     Had 
he  not  lived  in  the  same  generation  with  Lamb,  we 
should  think  better  of  him  as  an  essayist,   or  we 
should  not  have  to  think  how  far  he  fell  below  the 
unrivaled  distinction  of  Elia.     Try  as  he  may,  he 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  203 

can  not  win  into  our  hearts  like  the  latter;  always 
there  is  some  alien  veil  between  us  and  him.  Honest 
good  fellow  though  William  be,  there  is  upon  his  ex 
pression  the  true  English  burr  and  reserve : — he 
talks  enough  yet  confesses  little  when  all  is  told. 
Between  him  and  us,  perhaps,  the  deepest  glow  of 
sympathy  is  never  felt. 

No,  much  as  we  like  him,  we  dare  not  put  him  in 
the  same  class  with  his  juniper-loving  friend  of  the 
India  House,  with  his  cordial  sweet  blood,  his  whim 
sical  gay  humors,  his  most  sane  insanity,  his  curious 
felicities  of  phrase  (never  has  man  so  modulated 
the  English  prose  pipe) — his  unfailing  originality 
of  thought,  his  wholesome  wit  without  the  labor  of 
paradox,  and,  above  all,  his  humor — the  true  es 
sence  of  his  genius — of  a  quality  the  rarest  and  fin 
est  in  our  literature.  You  see  how  William's  vic 
torious  rival  draws  me  away! — ah,  never  had  man 
one  more  kind  and  ungrudging.  Yet  to  most  of  the 
contemporaries  of  both,  Hazlitt  appeared  the  more 
considerable  writer.  I  fancy  he  thought  so  himself, 
from  the  tone  of  some  rather  too  tolerant  references 
to  the  rarer  genius.  But  we  know  better  now. 

Hazlitt's  radicalism  was  genuine  and  heart-felt 
(as  an  Englishman's  is  apt  to  be),  yet  it  is  curiously 
unattractive  as  part  of  his  literary  exhibit.  When 
he  talks  of  what  he  has  lost  by  it,  from  the  friends 
of  power,  etc.,  the  honesty  of  the  boast  is  as  un 
doubted  as  the  effect  is  unpleasing  and  unworthy  of 


204  ADVENTURES    IN 

his  own  finer  moods.  Another  point  in  Lamb's  fa 
vor,  who  is  never  so  delightful  as  when  he  discourses 
of  himself. 

The  literary  and  critical  essays  of  Hazlitt  have 
their  own  strong,  peculiar  merits;  those  who  really 
love  literature  are  not  in  the  habit  of  ignoring  them. 
(You  remember  Stevenson's  fine  praise.)  Hazlitt 
taught  his  own  generation  much,  and  we  may  still 
learn  of  him:  in  the  best  of  his  work  there  is  the 
heat  and  glow  that  mark  the  man  truly  called  of 
letters. 


IX 


BOOKS,  yes,  let  us  have  talk  about  books,  but 
well  flavored  with  the  tabasco  sauce  of  hu 
man  interest.     I  hate  your  literary  eunuchs 
who  lack  the  sap  of  virility,  whose  veins  run  ink; 
pale,  bloodless  worms  of  the  library,  poor  languid 
parasites  that  live  their  unreal  life  by  grace  of  a 
false  sentiment;  sexless  expositors  for  Epicene  jour 
nals  and  young  ladies'  seminaries. 

Say  what  we  will,  we  love  or  hate  the  man  behind 
the  book — there  is  no  such  thing  as  impersonality  in 
true  literature.  I  love  Lamb  for  his  late  suppers, 
his  too  many  pipes,  his  clinging  to  ale  and  gin,  no 
less  than  for  the  essays  and  letters.  The  man  was 
all  of  a  piece : — cut  off  a  single  foible  and  you  muti 
late  him.  I  like  Burns  for  what  he  was  and  wish 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  205 

that  he  had  drunk  less  whiskey,  only  that  we  might 
have  more  Highland  Marys  and  Tam  O'Shanters. 
I  take  off  my  hat  to  the  splendid  passions  that  made 
Byron  and  think  they  were  perhaps  worth  more  than 
a  century  of  men  who  lived,  died  and  left  no  name. 
So  of  the  most  terrible  examples  that  the  Pharisees 
of  literature  point  the  slow,  unmoving  finger  of  scorn 
at — Heine,  Poe,  Verlaine,  Wilde,  Maupassant, — 
I  give  thanks  for  them  all,  for  the  man  as  well  as 
his  genius,  the  one  no  less  than  the  other.  And  I 
take  the  few  saints  of  literature — Wordsworth, 
Emerson,  Newman,  Arnold — on  the  same  terms, 
loving  them  not  a  jot  less  for  their  virtues  than  the 
others  for  their  vices  (which  were  their  virtues). 
This  receptivity  would  perhaps  never  do  for  the  Epi 
cene  School  and  the  young  ladies'  seminaries;  but 
I  may  mention  that  it  has  yielded  me  such  satisfac 
tion  as  I  have  gotten  out  of  literature. 


I 


FIND  this  in  Balzac  and  it  would  be  hard  to 
cite  anything  worthier  of  his  penetrative 
knowledge  of  life : 


"The  moral  senses  have  their  laws,  which  are 
implacable,  and  we  are  always  punished  for  disre 
garding  them.  There  is  one  in  particular  which  the 
animals  themselves  obey  without  discussion  and  in- 


206  ADVENTURES    IN 

variably:  it  is  that  which  tells  us  to  avoid  those  who 
have  once  injured  us,  with  or  without  intention, 
voluntarily  or  involuntarily.  *  *  *  We  have 
within  us  an  inward  power  of  sight,  an  eye  of  the 
soul  which  foresees  catastrophes;  and  the  repugnance 
that  comes  over  us  against  the  fateful  being  is  the 
result  of  that  foresight.  Though  religion  orders 
us  to  conquer  it,  distrust  remains  and  its  voice  is 
forever  heard." 


Few  of  us  have  ever  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  that 
voice — that  divining  augur  of  the  soul — without 
having  to  pay  dearly  for  it.  Love  is  always  at  first 
sight — and  its  opposite. 

Looking  into  my  heart  I  find  that  the  strongest 
hatreds  I  have  ever  felt  for  individuals — hatreds 
based  upon  tangible  injuries  and  solid  grievances — 
have  utterly  faded  out  in  a  short  time,  so  that  my 
arm  has  relaxed  when  a  chance  has  presented  itself 
to  strike  an  old  foe. 

What  does  this  mean?  I  know  myself  for  a  good 
hater,  and  I  despise  the  cant  of  turning  the  other 
cheek,  the  hound-like  humility  with  which  base  men 
hide  their  rancorous  hearts  behind  the  Christian 
code.  I  would  not  exchange  the  hypocritical  kiss  of 
peace  with  my  enemies,  not  if  I  know  myself  at  all; 
and  yet,  after  a  time,  I  find  myself  strangely  lacking 
in  Othello's  "hearted  hatred"  and  that  "gall  to 
make  oppression  bitter"  of  which  Hamlet  speaks. 
Often  it  chances  that  somebody  will  seek  to  please 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  207 

me  by  recalling  an  old  grudge  and  officiously  damn 
ing  the  author  of  it — without  provoking  an  echo  in 
my  breast  or  an  answering  pulse  of  resentment. 

From  which  I  conclude  (though  loving  an  honest 
hater  as  well  as  old  Sam  Johnson)  that  kindness  is 
the  Greater  Law;  and  in  spite  of  the  theologians,  I 
do  God  the  honor  of  believing  that,  like  his  poor 
human  children,  He  is  unable  to  hate  eternally  but 
often  gives  Himself  the  pleasure  of  sponging  out 
the  evil  side  of  the  Recording  Angel's  account. 

It's  a  good  thing  for  all  of  us  to  do — without  be 
ing  hounds  or  hypocrites. 


XI 

THACKERAY  did  not  reach  old  age— he 
had  taken  too  many  crops  out  of  the  brain, 
in  his  own  memorable  phrase;  but  it  is 
known  that  his  great  mental  powers  perceptibly 
declined  in  his  last  years.  Hence  the  com 
parative  failure  of  "Philip,"  wherein  the  au 
thor  buttonholes  us  beyond  endurance  and  some 
times  forgets  the  names  of  his  own  characters. 
Hence  also  the  success  of  the  "Roundabout  Papers" 
(contributed  to  the  "Cornhill"  during  the  brief 
period  of  his  editorship)  the  allowed  gossipy,  ran 
dom,  hit-or-miss  character  of  which  happily  suited 
the  relaxed  powers  of  Thackeray.  The  great  man 


208  ADVENTURES    IN 

was  prosperous,  too,  after  a  lifetime  of  anxious,  in 
cessant  labor;  and  he  was  nearing  the  harbor.  Con 
tent  in  the  fulness  of  fame  and  fortune,  yielding  a 
little  perhaps  to  the  adulation  of  rank  and  power 
(I  dismiss  with  contempt  the  enterprise  of  certain 
literary  snobs  to  rate  him  as  spiritually  one  of  them 
selves),  conscious  that  his  sun  was  setting,  softened 
in  heart  and  sinking  in  health,  what  marvel  if  he 
wrote  some  things  in  his  "lay  sermons'*  that  seem 
in  strange  and  violent  contrast  with  the  utterance  of 
his  meridian  genius.  Not  so  much  an  utterance  in 
deed  as  a  relaxation  of  his  characteristic  attitude,  a 
weakening  of  fibre;  and  this  made  altogether  too 
much  of  by  the  sentimentalists  and  the  apologists  of 
the  Tribe  of  Pangloss  who  would  now  claim  Thack 
eray  for  their  own. 

Other  great  men  have  suffered  the  same  partial 
eclipse.  It  is  proverbially  hard,  with  declining 
years,  to  maintain  the  courage  of  the  mind  at  merid 
ian  temper,  the  springs  of  the  will  unbroken,  and 
to  resist  the  world's  last  call  for  a  surrender  or  at 
least  a  compromise.  That  a  man  should  play  Judas 
to  the  true  Messiah  of  self  is  a  strange  thing  of 
which  there  be  examples  enough  to  weep  over.  For 
old  age,  or  rather  decay,  often  brings  a  recantation, 
nullifying  and  undoing  the  work  of  a  man's  best 
years;  and  we  have  seen  Renan  bearing  witness 
against  himself  in  the  event  of  such  a  senile  apos 
tasy.  Thackeray  had  no  need  to  do  this — like  Hor- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  209 

ace  whom  he  loved  and  admired  so  much,  he  was 
truly  quails  ab  incepto  in  all  his  greater  effort;  and 
those  competent  to  appraise  his  work  will  never 
doubt  where  to  find  the  best  of  it. 

On  the  other  hand,  too  much  might  easily  be 
made  of  the  misanthropy,  the  fw-humanity  of  Thack 
eray,  as  he  himself  has  done  in  the  case  of  Swift — 
and  it  is  curious  that  he  has  perhaps  quite  as  much 
in  common  with  the  great  Dean  as  with  his  favorite 
Fielding.  He  loved  goodness,  kindness,  virtue,  gen 
erosity  as  much  as  he  hated  the  contrary  qualities, 
and  there  is  no  estimating  the  service  he  has  ren 
dered  by  exposing  the  shams  and  hypocrisies,  the  un 
speakable  meanness,  turpitude  and  injustice  which 
perhaps  are  not  yet  wholly  extirpated  from  English 
society.  He  did  his  work  well,  a  great  work  in 
every  sense,  and  small  men  shall  not  impart  to  it 
their  own  littleness.  We  know  that  for  long  the 
world  well  pleased  with  itself,  the  smug,  complacent 
world  defined  by  Carlyle  as  "Respectability  in  its 
thousand  gigs/'  refused  to  do  him  honor  and  in 
surly  fashion  turned  its  back  upon  the  ruthless  in 
vestigator  of  family  skeletons,  the  daring  Asmodeus 
of  English  satire.  This  is  the  way  of  the  world, — 
to  deny  the  genius  until  compelled  to  accept  him, 
and  then,  so  far  as  possible,  to  make  him  over  in 
its  own  likeness.  To  a  very  slight  and  negligible  de 
gree  it  succeeded  in  doing  this  with  Thackeray  in 
the  period  of  his  decline — a  tired  Hercules,  with  his 


210  ADVENTURES    IN 

great  labors  behind  him.  Hence  the  caricature 
which  fools  and  sentimentalists  have  been  latterly 
trying  to  pass  off  as  a  true  likeness  of  the  great 
satirist — the  fiercest  beak  and  talon  in  our  litera 
ture  since  Swift. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS 


DICKENS:  A   REVERIE 

DEAR,  immortal  Dickens !  So  the  wise  pub 
lishers  have  discovered  a  "revival"  of  inter 
est  in  the  Master  of  English  story,  and 
they  are  paying  him  the  compliment  of  many  new 
editions.  As  if  it  were  not  his  province  to  lay  his 
strong  toil  of  grace  on  each  new  generation;  as  if 
he  were  not  of  those  beloved  Immortals  who  live  on 
forever  in  the  changeless  romance  of  the  young: 
as  if,  in  fine,  his  world-wide  audience  had  not  been 
steadily  growing  in  the  space  since  his  death  until 
now  it  is  by  far  the  greatest  that  has  ever  done 
honor  to  an  English  writer.  Truly,  messieurs  the 
publishers  shall  easily  persuade  us. 

But  I  for  one  am  glad  at  any  rate  to  hear  of  this 
"revival,"  which  never  ceases,  and  to  enjoy  the  pub 
lishers'  accounts  of  those  fine  new  editions  of  the 
old  yet  ever  young  Dickens.  Books  were  written 
better  in  his  day,  no  doubt;  though  Mr.  Howells, 
who  was  once  a  daring  young  heretic  on  this  sub 
ject  and  is  now  himself  under  the  hand  of  time,  will 
not  have  it  so.  But  surely  they  were  not  made  so 
well,  at  least  for  popular  reading.  And  here  the 
publisher  is  entitled  to  his  bit  of  praise,  however  we 


212  ADVENTURES    IN 

may  smile  at  that  evidence  of  the  ingenuity  of  the 
publishing  trade,  the  Dickens  revival.  It  will,  I 
think,  be  always  a  safe  venture  to  prepare  for  and 
to  announce  a  "great  revival  of  interest"  in  the 
works  of  Mr.  Charles  Dickens — especially  with  an 
eye  to  the  new  generation.  Other  authors  dispute 
the  fickle  preference  of  the  old,  the  disillusioned, 
and  the  too  mature — the  young  are  always  for  Mr. 
Dickens. 

And  the  sceptre  shall  not  pass  from  him.  Over 
twenty-five  years  ago  I  first  read  my  Dickens  in  the 
paper-covered  books  of  the  Franklin  Square  Li 
brary.  They  were  ugly  in  appearance,  clumsy  to 
hold  and,  worse  lack  of  all  to  a  young  reader,  there 
were  no  pictures  to  give  form  and  pressure  to  the 
story.  But  all  this  disparagement  is  the  work  of 
my  later  thought.  Surely  I  was  not  then  conscious 
of  any  fault  or  blemish  in  the  Aladdin's  treasure 
that  had  suddenly  fallen  to  me  from  the  sky.  Pity 
the  man  who  is  not  loyal  to  his  first  loves !  I  would 
give  much  to  taste  again  the  feelings  of  joy  and  rap 
ture  and  wonder  which  then  were  mine  while  mak 
ing  my  breathless  course  through  those  ungainly 
publications  of  the  Franklin  Square. 

I  was  a  boy  then — God  help  me ! — the  sort  of  boy, 
I  dare  believe,  the  Master  had  much  in  mind;  and  a 
whole  world  of  bitter  experience  lies  between  me 
and  that  happy  time.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  bare 
cold  little  room  where  I  spent  so  many  unwearied 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  213 

hours,  hugging  my  treasure  in  both  arms;  often 
hungry,  but  forgetting  it,  fed  as  I  then  was  with  the 
food  of  romance;  oftener  cold,  but  unheeding  that, 
too,  warmed  as  I  was  with  the  glow  of  fancy?  And 
the  smell  of  the  fresh-printed  pages  as  I  turned 
them  with  trembling,  eager  hands  (the  door  of  the 
little  room  shut  and  I  alone) — have  I  ever  since 
known  the  like? — could  the  costliest  book  now  yield 
me  such  a  thrill? — alas!  could  any  spell,  however 
potent,  again  make  me  free  of  the  vanished  King 
dom  of  romance? 

O  poor  little  room,  which  saw  that  miracle,  the 
lighting  up  of  a  boy's  imagination,  the  swelling 
chivalry  of  his  young  heart,  the  simple  joy  of  his 
candid  youth — I  look  back  now  with  lamentable 
vision  on  the  long  way  I  have  come,  and  I  know  I 
have  met  nothing  so  good  in  my  journey.  Would 
to  God,  little  room,  I  might  wake  even  now  as  from 
a  vexed  and  sorrow-laden  dream,  to  find  myself  that 
boy  once  again,  sheltered  by  you  and  heedless  of 
hunger  and  cold,  could  he  but  slake  his  thirst  at  the 
Enchanted  Fountain!  .  .  . 

And  sure  these  blessed  things  of  memory  have 
played  me  a  trick,  or  I  am  in  very  truth  a  boy  again 
— dear  God,  do  but  grant  it,  a  boy  again!  For  I 
would  swear  that  just  now  a  breeze  of  youth  smote 
my  cheek,  and  lo!  in  a  trice  I  am  whirled  back  into 
the  past.  Lost  and  breathless  a  moment,  I  soon 
find  myself  in  a  garden  with  my  pretty  mother,  bolt- 


214  ADVENTURES    IN 

ing  furtive  gooseberries  and  trying  to  look  unmoved 
A  wind  arises  and  now  I  am  in  the  house 
with  Peggotty  (I  still  feel  the  touch  of  her  finger 
like  a  nutmeg  grater),  poring  over  the  Crorkendill 
Book  and  vexing  her  simple  soul  with  my  persistent 
questions.  Another  change  and  look! — I  see  little 
Em'ly,  and  Ham,  and  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  Mrs. 
Gummidge  (bless  him  for  that  name!).  Barkis 
has  just  brought  me  in  the  cart  and  I  am  so  proud 
to  be  a  Yarmouth  Bloater  (oh,  memory!).  Isn't  it 
fine  to  live  in  a  house  made  out  of  an  old  boat 
and  to  hear  the  wind  come  creeping  about  it  at  night 
when  you  are  snug  in  bed  and  just  dropping  off  to 
sleep!  .  .  .  How  sweet  little  Em'ly  is,  and 
oh,  how  I  love  her  with  all  the  innocent  love  of  my 
boyish  heart !  The  nights  I  lie  awake,  thinking 
about  her  and  praying  that  she  may  come  to  no 
harm!  .  .  .  Mr.  Murdstone  is  worse  than  ever 
since  that  day  when  he  beat  me  and  I  bit  him  on  the 
hand.  His  beard  is  very  black  and  so  thick  that  his 
skin  looks  blue  after  shaving — confound  his  whis 
kers  and  his  memory!  .  .  .  My  box  is  ready, 
Mr.  Barkis  is  here  again,  and  my  mother  comes  out 
to  say  good-bye  to  me,  with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 
She  would  have  said  something  more  to  me,  I  know, 
but  he  was  there  to  restrain  her.  "Clara,  Clara,  be 
firm!"  I  hear  his  warning  voice.  But  she  looked 
intently  at  me,  holding  up  her  baby  in  her  arms. 
So  I  lost  her,  so  I  saw  her  many  a  time  afterward 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  215 

at  school,  a  silent  Presence  at  my  bedside,  holding 
up  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

Comes  a  wooden-legged  man  stumping  through 
my  dream  and  eyeing  me  fiercely.  Was  his  name 
Tungay,  and  did  he  put  a  placard  on  my  back  read 
ing  "Take  Care  of  Him — He  Bites?" — I  must  ask 
Traddles  about  this.  .  . 

The  "horfling"  and  I  have  just  parted  in  tears — 
she  to  St.  Luke's  Workhouse  and  Mr.  Micawber  to 
the  Fleet,  still  gallantly  figuring  on  his  insoluble 
problem.  I  am  somewhat  comforted  in  the  assur 
ance  that  Mrs.  Micawber  (with  the  twins)  will 
never  desert  him.  .  .  .  Now  I  am  in  Canter 
bury.  It  is  a  fine  day  and  the  rooks  are  flying 
about  the  old  cathedral.  Here  is  poor  Mr.  Dick, 
still  bothered  about  the  head  of  Charles  I.,  and  the 
Doctor  placidly  at  work  on  his  dictionary  (not  hav 
ing  advanced  a  letter  since  the  old  days!),  and 
Uriah  Heep  deep  in  Tidd's  Practice.  ("Oh,  what 
a  writer  Mr.  Tidd  is,  Mr.  Copperfull!")  .  .  . 
How  familiar  seems  this  house,  with  the  hallowed 
sense  of  early  dreams!  I  enter  and  lo!  what  grace 
ful  figure  is  this  coming  down  the  stair  to  meet  me, 
a  bunch  of  household  keys  jingling  at  her  waist? 
What  was  it  about  Agnes  Wickfield  that  made  me 
associate  her  always  with  the  peace  and  radiance 
of  a  stained-glass  window?  .  .  . 

How  the  scar  flamed  out  on  Miss  Dartle's  pale 
cheek  when  Steerforth  asked  her  to  sing!  .  .  . 


2i6  ADVENTURES    IN 

I  hate  that  sneak  Littimer  who  always  makes  me 
feel  as  if  I  was  too  young  (alas,  too  young!)  .  .  . 
Yarmouth  again  and  Steerforth  with  me,  more 
handsome  and  fascinating  and  irresistible  than  ever. 
Yes,  though  he  broke  her  heart,  and  mine,  too — (I 
have  never  recovered  from  it!) — still  do  I  forgive 
him  for  the  old  love  I  bore  him.  Let  me  keep  the 
sacred  pledge  of  my  boyish  faith,  to  remember  him 
at  his  best,  as  he  asked  me  to,  that  night  when  we 
left  the  old  boat  together  and  I  marked  something 
different  in  him;  let  me  think  of  him  as  I  loved  to 
see  him  in  our  school  days,  lying  asleep  with  his 
head  on  his  arm  ...  So  they  found  him  after 
the  great  storm  and  wreck,  lying  at  rest  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  home  he  had  wronged. 

Ours  was  the  marsh  country  down  by  the  sea, 

where  I  first  saw  the  Convict,  what  time  the  guns 

were   firing  and  the  hulks   lay  at  anchor  near  by 

Wasn't  it  kind  of  dear  old  Joe  to  put  that 

inscription  over  his  bad  and  worthless  father — 

Whatsomever  tine  failings  on  his  part, 

Remember,  reader,  he  had  that  good  In  his  heart. 

I  saw  that  snorting  old  Purnblechook  yesterday 
when  I  was  on  my  way  to  Miss  Havisham's — he 
always  makes  me  feel  guilty,  as  if  he  knew  some 
thing  bad  about  me. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  217 

What  a  strange  lady  Miss  Havisham  is,  and  why 
does  she  stay,  dressed  all  in  white  and  covered  with 
old  bridal  finery,  in  a  room  where  candles  burn 
always  and  from  which  the  light  of  day  is  shut 
out?  .  .  .  Oh,  Estelle,  Estelle! — how  beauti 
ful  she  was  to-day!  How  I  love  her,  and  how  she 
wounds  me  with  her  disdain!  Yet  once  I  plucked 
up  courage  to  ask  her  for  a  kiss,  and  she  slapped 
me  on  the  cheek — I  feel  the  sting  of  it  yet!  But 
my  turn  came  when  I  had  whipped  the  prowling 
boy  behind  the  brewery  wall  and  she,  unseen  by  us 
both,  had  watched  the  battle.  "You  may  kiss  me  if 
you  please,"  she  said,  with  flushed  cheek — how 
lovely  she  was  in  her  conquered  pride,  and  what  a 
reward  was  mine ! 

Ever  the  best  of  friends,  ain't  us,  Pip? — Dear 
old  Joe !  shall  I  ever  forget  when  he  came  to  see  me 
at  my  lodgings  in  London  and  the  trouble  he  had  to 
keep  his  hat  from  falling?  What  a  giant  he  was  at 
the  forge,  though  as  gentle  as  a  child!  Surly  Or- 
lick  soon  found  his  master. 

Beat  it  out,  beat  it  out,  old  Clem, 

With  a  clink  to  the  stout,  old  Clem!     .     .     . 

Bentley  Drummle  came  to  Mr.  Pocket's  school 

when  he  was  a  head  taller  than  that  gentleman  and 

several  heads  thicker  than  most  young  gentlemen 

I  can  not  believe  that  Estelle  will  marry 


218  ADVENTURES    IN 

that  fool  and  brute.  .  .  .  He  came  up  the  stair 
way  as  I  held  the  light  for  him  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  peculiar  expression.  .  .  .  "When  the 
colonists  rode  by  me  on  their  blooded  horses  I  said 
to  myself,  I  am  making  a  better  gentleman  nor  any 
of  you."  .  .  .  How  strange  it  was  of  Mr. 
Jaggers  to  ask  his  housekeeper  to  show  us  her 
hands !  Good  God !  Could  it  be  possible 

that  this  convict,  yet  my  benefactor,  Abel  Magwitch, 
was  Estelle's  father?  ...  I  went  to  the  forge 
and  it  was  strangely  quiet.  The  house  was  closed. 
I  walked  toward  the  little  church  and  suddenly  I 
met  them,  Joe  smiling  and  awkward  in  his  Sunday 
clothes,  Biddy  in  her  best  attire — "It  is  my  wedding 
day  and  I  am  married  to  Joe!"  .  .  . 

A  broad  stream  of  light  united  the  judge  and  the 
condemned,  reminding  some  there  present  of  that 
greater  Judgment  to  which  all  alike  were  passing 
and  which  can  not  err.  Standing  for  a  moment,  a 
distinct  speck  in  that  sea  of  light,  the  prisoner  said, 
"My  lord,  I  have  received  my  sentence  from  the 
hand  of  the  Almighty,  but  I  bow  to  yours." 
A  woman  was  sitting  there  alone — it  was  Estelle! 
"We  are  friends?"  I  said.  uYes,"  she  answered, 
"and  will  continue  friends  apart."  I  took  her  hand 
and  we  went  out  of  the  ruined  churchyard  together. 
The  mists  were  rising  as  they  rose  on  that  morning 
long  ago  when  I  first  left  the  forge.  And  in  all  the 
broad  expanse  of  tranquil  light  they  showed  to  me, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  219 

I  saw   no    shadow   of   another   parting    from    her. 

Why  this  must  be  Mr.  Pecksniff's  Architec- 
tooralooral  Academy!  I  hear  Mercy  giggling 
on  the  stair.  There  is  the  portrait  by  Spiller,  the 
bust  by  Spoker,  and  as  I  live,  here  is  Tom  Pinch 
still  making  a  shamefaced  attempt  to  learn  the  vio 
lin  between  the  bed-clothes.  Poor  Tom  Pinch ! 
Have  I  ever  seen  simple-hearted  kindness  and  truth 
in  the  world  without  thinking  of  thee? — have  I 
ever  seen  unctuous  pretence  and  rascality  without 
recalling  thy  master?  And  yet  they  say  thy  Crea 
tor  could  not  draw  a  character  according  to  nature 
— the  fools! 

Yo-ho — a  race  with  the  moon.  I  am  making  that 
famous  journey  with  Tom  Pinch  by  stage  coach  to 
London.  But  lo !  we  have  not  gone  far  when  we 
overhaul  Nicholas  and  Smike  on  the  road,  fleeing 
to  London,  too,  after  thrashing  Squeers  and  turn 
ing  loose  the  tender  youth  of  Dotheboys.  Shall 
we  make  room  for  them? — well!  .  .  .  But 
have  a  care,  coachman,  that  Jonas  Chuzzlewit  shall 
not  get  a  lift  with  us,  for  we  have  a  dreadful  sus 
picion  of  Something  he  left  behind  him  in  the  wood. 
.  .  .  Who  were  those  two  that  crossed  the  road 
before  us  just  then  and  slunk  away  in  the  shadow, 
a  big  hulking  fellow  and  a  boy? — I'll  wager  it  was 
Bill  Sykes  and  Oliver  Twist  going  to  crack  a  crib — 
more  of  Fagin's  deviltry!  .  .  .  Yo-ho!  the 
lights  of  London! — and  here  we  are  at  last  at  Lon- 


220  ADVENTURES    IN 

don  Bridge  where,  quite  giddy  and  breathless,  we 
get  down  with  Tom  Pinch  and  the  others — did  I 
say  that  we  had  also  picked  up  Codlin  and  Short, 
Mr.  Scrooge  and  Tim  Linkinwater,  and  a  silent  gen 
tleman  who  cracked  his  joints  incessantly? — I  catch 
a  glimpse  of  Rogue  Riderhood  slinking  about  his 
evil  affairs  and  still  wearing  that  old  cap  like  a 
drowned  dog.  Drowned !  That  was  the  word  in 
flaring  black  letters  which  stared  from  a  dead  wall 
— I  saw  John  Harmon,  muffled  to  the  ears,  stand 
before  it  a  long  time.  .  .  .  Now  in  the  lighted 
city,  and  who  of  all  strangely  assorted  beings  of 
fact  or  fancy  should  I  see  in  close  conversation  but 
Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  of  Tellson's  and  Mr.  Tulking- 
horn  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields!  No  doubt  they  are 
talking  about  the  strange  disappearance  of  Lady 
Dedlock — I  wonder  if  that  boy  limping  past  them, 
unheeded,  who  looks  so  like  Poor  Jo,  could  throw 
any  light  on  it.  ...  But  what  grotesque  fig 
ures  are  these  under  the  corner  lamp,  with  bonneted 
heads  bobbing  at  each  other  in  eager  colloquy? 
My  life !  it's  Miss  Flite  and  Sairey  Gamp  (dear  Mrs. 
Gamp !  thou  too  art  said  to  be  of  an  unreal  world, 
yet  do  I  hold  thee  dearer  than  all  the  joyless  reali 
ties  of  their  realism).  I  catch  a  few  words — uthe 
Man  from  Shropshire" — and  I  surmise  they  are 
gossiping  about  the  strange  end  of  that  unfortun 
ate  suitor  of  Chancery,  who  dropped  dead  on  his 
one  thousandth  interruption  of  the  Court.  .  .  . 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  221 

Plash-water  weir  mill  lock  of  a  balmy  summer's 
evening  and  a  rough  fellow  dressed  like  a  bargeman, 
with  a  red  neckerchief,  who  looks  strangely  like 
the  schoolmaster  Bradley  Headstone.  Was  that 
the  careless,  handsome  Eugene  Wrayburn  who  went 
on  before?  Hurry,  for  God's  sake,  ere  murder  be 
done — you  have  not  seen  that  man  as  I  did,  smash 
his  desperate  hand  against  a  stone  wall.  Hark! 
a  blow ! — another ! — a  splash — we  are  too  late.  But 
look!  Lizzie  Hexam  is  there  before  us,  rowing  her 
boat  with  a  firm  nerve  and  practised  skill.  Now 
thanks  to  God  for  that  old  time,  and  let  me  but  save 
his  life,  even  though  it  be  for  another!  .  .  . 

At  Dr.  Blimber's  select  academy  for  young  gen 
tlemen,  and  Master  Bitherstone  has  just  asked  me, 
in  a  crisis  of  wounded  feeling,  if  I  would  please  map 
out  for  him  an  easy  overland  route  to  Bengal.  I 
listened  distractedly,  for  my  mind  was  fixed  on  the 
New  Boy.  And  who  is  this  little  fellow  sitting  sadly 
alone  while  the  grave  clock  seems  to  repeat  the 
Doctor's  greeting:  "How,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend, 
how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend?"  Oh,  thou  rejected  of 
men  and  critics,  let  the  world  deny  thee  as  it  may, 
I  call  Heaven  to  witness  that  I  was  once  as  thou; 
that  I  wept  true  tears  over  thy  young  sorrows ;  that 
no  child  of  my  own  house  is  more  real  to  me  than 
Paul  Dombey!  .  .  . 

Mr.  Richard  Swiveller  has  just  confided  to  me  the 
extraordinary  dilemma  in  which  he  finds  himself — 


222  ADVENTURES    IN 

we  were  having  a  modest  quencher,  which  induced 
the  confidence.  Mr.  Swiveller's  creditors  have  in 
creased  at  such  a  rate  that  the  principal  thorough 
fares  are  now  closed  to  him,  and  in  order  to  get  only 
across  the  way,  he  is  obliged  to  go  into  the  country. 
I  should  have  heard  more  on  this  interesting  sub 
ject  but  for  the  sudden  appearance,  at  the  door,  of 
a  small  person — Mr.  Swiveller  humorously  called 
her  the  Marchioness — who  made  frantic  gestures, 
importing  that  his  presence  was  required  in  the  es 
tablishment  of  Sampson  Brass,  Barrister-at-law. 
Little  Nell  was  dead.  No  sleep  so  calm 
and  beautiful,  so  free  from  trace  of  pain,  so  fair 
to  look  upon.  She  seemed  a  creature  fresh  from  the 
hand  of  God — not  one  that  had  lived  and  suffered 
Death.  .  .  .  (And  this,  too,  they  have  re 
jected,  because,  they  say,  it  is  blank  verse!). 

Have  you  ever  heard  the  legend  of  Bleeding 
Heart  Yard  where  Mr.  Panks  collects  the  rent  and 
the  Patriarch  benevolently  airs  his  bumps? — 

Bleeding  heart,  bleeding  heart, 
Bleeding  away! 

Mrs.  Plornish  (who  translates  the  Italian  so  ele 
gantly)  told  it  me  not  long  ago,  but  though  it  was 
very  sad,  I  have  forgotten  it.  Perhaps  because  I 
was  watching  the  eager  eyes  of  John  Baptist  Caval- 
letto  and  wondering  what  he  knows  about  one  Ri- 
gaud  whose  moustache  goes  up  and  whose  nose 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  223 

comes  down.  ...  I  am  sure  now  that  if  Ar 
thur  Clennam  had  not  given  his  heart  to  the  young 
lady,  and  there  had  been  no  such  thing  as  her  en 
gagement  to  Another,  the  rain  would  still  have  be 
haved  just  as  it  did — that  is,  it  would  have  fallen 
heavily,  drearily.  But  oh!  I  did  not  think  so 
then.  .  .  . 

"Amy,  is  Bob  on  the  lock?"     .     .     . 

I  see  an  old  man  with  white  hair  standing  at  the 
head  of  a  rich  banquet  table  and  looking  strangely 
upon  the  two  long  lines  of  astonished  guests.  Then 
I  see  Her  go  swiftly  to  his  side  and  lay  her  hand  on 
his  arm,  without  shame,  proud  of  him,  loving  him. 
And  in  her  true  eyes  I  see  the  fulness  of  that  love 
through  which  the  human  reaches  the  divine — that 
love  which,  among  English  writers,  Charles  Dick 
ens  has  best  figured  and  expressed.  .  .  .  "Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  I  am  called  the  Father  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea.  It  is,  ahem,  a  title,  hum,  hum,  I  may  say 
earned,  ahem,  earned,  by  a  somewhat  protracted 
period  of,  ahem,  residence.  On  this  account  it  is, 
ahem,  customary  for  visitors  and,  hum,  hum,  stu 
dents,  to  make  me  a  little  offering,  which  usually 
takes  the  form  of,  ahem,  a  slight  pecuniary  dona 
tion.  This  is  my  daughter,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 
Born  here,  bred  here!" 

So  they  pass  in  review  before  my  fond  memory — 
the  people  of  Dickens :  a  wonderful  procession,  fan- 


224  ADVENTURES    IN 

tastic,  varied,  extraordinary,  not  surely  of  this 
world,  perhaps,  but  then  of  a  better  one — the  magic 
realm  of  the  master  wizard  of  English  story.  And 
yet  I  am  glad  that  I  read  him  as  a  boy — that  he  be 
longs  with  so  much  else  that  is  precious  to  the  en 
chanted  period  of  life.  Rich  as  that  genius  was, 
and  on  many  counts  without  a  rival,  one  must  I  fear 
break  with  the  charm  when  the  illusions  of  youth 
are  past.  This  is  less  the  fault  and  loss  of  Dickens 
than  our  own. 

Therefore,  loving  Dickens  as  I  do,  I  am  yet  not 
ashamed  to  confess  that  since  boyhood  I  have  re 
read  but  few  of  his  books — one  of  these  was  the 
"Tale  of  Two  Cities,"  and  either  the  drinker  was 
changed  or  there  was  something  alien  in  the  draught. 
I  do  not  own  a  set  of  them,  not  even  the  old  Frank 
lin  Square  novels,  which,  a  ragged  regiment,  have 
long  since  fluttered  away  into  that  dear  and  irre 
coverable  country  where  lie  the  lost  treasures  of 
youth.  So  I  can  honestly  say  that  in  the  foregoing 
pages  I  have  jotted  down,  without  art  or  method, 
and  without  reference  to  the  books  themselves, 
some  memories  still  fresh  after  twenty-five  years — 
it  is  perhaps  given  to  few  authors  to  inspire  us  with 
such  lasting  recollections.  Yet  if  I  were  to  lose  all 
these,  I  should  not  be  beggared:  there  would  still 
remain  a  world  of  Dickens  in  my  remembrance. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  225 


A   LITTLE    DINNER   WITH  EGERIA 

IF  you  will  bear  in  mind  that  I  am  one  of  those 
persons  to  whom  the  miraculous  is  far  easier 
than  the  ordinary  or  the  probable — to  whom 
dreams  and  shadows  are  more  real  than  tangible 
realities — then  you  will  not  scorn  the  little  tale  here 
offered  you,  God  knows  with  small  assurance  of  its 
being  credited  for  the  truth  it  is. 

It  was  in  the  Martha  Washington  Hotel  for 
women  in  New  York  that  I  first  saw  Her — you  will 
grant  me  at  least  that  there  could  scarcely  be  a  more 
weirdly  unpromising  place  for  such  a  visitation.  I 
had  gone  to  that  well  ordered  gynecium  in  order  to 
meet  a  lady  from  the  South,  a  sister  of  the  pen, 
with  whom  I  had  had  a  slight  but  friendly  corre 
spondence.  In  the  way  of  the  craft  she  had  sig 
nalled  me  as  a  brother,  which  a  little  surprised  me, 
love  and  understanding  of  each  other's  merits  not 
being,  as  is  commonly  taken  for  granted,  the  pecu 
liar  virtues  of  writing  folk,  more  particularly  the 
magazine  bandar  log.  I  therefore  wished  to  offer 
this  lady  (whom  I  had  never  seen)  some  ordinary 
courtesies  on  the  occasion  of  her  visit  to  New  York. 
This  will  explain  my  call  at  the  Martha  Washing- 


226  ADVENTURES    IN 

ton.  It  will  not  nor  shall  I  attempt  to  explain  what 
followed  there  and  afterward.  I  must  be  content 
to  leave  the  story  to  the  few  who  will  understand. 

It  was  in  the  early  evening  of  a  warm  but  lovely 
June  day  when  I  stepped  into  the  broad  court  of  the 
Martha  and  looked  about  me  somewhat  anxiously 
for  my  friend.  I  wished  to  be  at  my  ease  and  my 
best  on  our  first  meeting,  knowing  how  women  are 
governed  by  first  impressions.  To  pick  out  a  lady 
whom  I  had  never  seen  among  the  many  women 
passing  and  repassing  across  the  court,  sitting  about 
in  chairs  and  lounges,  scattered  singly  or  in  groups, 
entering  or  departing,  was  no  easy  matter;  and  very 
soon  I  felt  my  calm  and  correct  manner  deserting 
me.  Then  I  grew  a  little  angry,  for  had  I  not  prom 
ised  myself  that  I  should  know  her  at  the  first  glance 
and  delight  her  with  my  intuition?  Perhaps  at  this 
very  moment  she  was  quietly  looking  me  over,  not 
ing  my  fits  and  starts,  with  the  unfailing  tact  and 
self-possession  of  women.  It  might  well  be  so  in 
deed,  for  full  twenty  minutes  had  elapsed  since  the 
boy  had  taken  up  my  card. 

And  then  I  saw  her  coming  toward  me  with  that 
slow-gliding  movement  which  the  old  poets  recog 
nized  as  the  gait  of  an  Olympian — 

Et  vera  incessu  patuit  deal 

And  which  he  can  never  forget  who  has  but  peeped 
into  the  magic  mirror  of  classic  poesy. 

It  is  Egeria !  I  said,  as  with  a  lightning  flash  of 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  227 

inspiration.  Her  whole  presence  announced  the  Di 
vinity,  and  I  all  but  fell  on  my  knees  in  the  open 
court  of  the  Martha  Washington,  where  many  la 
dies  pass  who  of  a  truth  never,  never  would  be 
taken  for  goddesses. 

She  was  of  the  true  divine  stature,  without  being 
extremely  tall  (gods  and  men  have  always  been  in 
agreement  on  this  point).  She  bore  her  noble  head 
with  the  indescribable  pose  of  antique  sculpture,  de 
noting  her  of  the  sisterhood  of  Hera  and  Aphro 
dite,  of  Maia  and  Niobe.  Her  hair,  a  rich  bronzed 
auburn,  was  dressed  in  the  ancient  manner,  save  that 
she  wore  no  fillet, — doubtless  with  a  view  to  sparing 
the  sensibilities  of  the  Martha.  But  it  was  her  eyes, 
above  all,  that  declared  the  goddess,  eyes  of  a  fath 
omless  golden  brown  depth  like  a  sea  wherein  count 
less  suns  have  set  in  glory, — for  I  might  not  evade 
the  fact,  however  incredible,  that  by  earthly  reckon 
ing  Egeria  must  be  some  twenty-six  hundred  years 
old,  though  indeed  there  was  no  disfiguring  trace  of 
time  upon  her.  Those  wonderful  eyes  turned  with 
unhurried  majesty  in  their  orbits — had  they  not  long 
since  looked  upon  all  that  was  worth  while  on  earth 
or  in  heaven? — and  they  never  seemed  to  close! 
Then  I  recalled  that  the  Olympians  are  to  be  known 
by  their  unwinking  gaze,  and  I  gave  myself  up  for 
lost,  when  the  Vision  put  forth  a  hand  in  greeting 
and  said  in  a  voice  with  sweet  lingering  cadences 
which  I  involuntarily  tried  to  scan: 


228  ADVENTURES    IN 

"Well,  my  friend,  why  are  you  thus 
Rapt  in  wonder?     I  shall  not  eat 
You,  though  you  are  to  take  me 
To  dinner." 

Unpersuaded  and  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  I  gave 
her  my  arm,  still  feeling  that  there  would  be  a  ter 
rible  row  if  the  Martha  knew  that  I  was  taking  out 
to  dinner  a  woman  twenty-six  hundred  years  old. 
I  observed,  though,  that  she  had  a  pretty  color  in 
her  cheeks  and  seemed  happily  expectant,  quite  like 
a  mere  mortal  woman  not  averse  to  dining,  who 
might  have  a  comfortable  balance  of  youth  in  her 
favor. 

An  hour  or  so  later,  seated  in  a  famous  French 
restaurant,  with  the  solids  of  a  good  dinner  disposed 
of  and  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Lafite  between  us,  a  de 
corous  orchestra  permitting  us  to  chat  without  being 
overheard  by  our  neighbors,  I  began  to  shake  off 
the  strange  illusion  with  which  the  first  sight  of  her 
had  possessed  me. 

Yet  I  still  found  myself  trying  to  scan  the  slow 
sweet  halting  music  of  her  speech,  and  still  from 
time  to  time  I  was  thrilled  and  set  to  dreaming  of 
"old  unhappy  far-off  things"  by  an  enigmatic  glance 
of  her  great  eyes. 

"I  may  have  told  you  in  one  of  my  letters,"  she 
said, —  (I  swear  I  had  no  recollection  of  it) — "that 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  229 

I  was  brought  up  on  an  old  plantation  in  the  South, 
in  a  sort  of  lonely  way.  Being  an  only  child,  I  was 
indulged  in  all  manner  of  caprices.  There  was  a 
grotto,  or  so  you  might  call  it,  with  a  deep  spring 
of  water  on  the  place,  where  I  loved  to  sit  and  dream 
by  the  hour.  I  had  studied  enough,  in  a  haphazard 
fashion,  to  know  something  about  Numa  Pompilius, 
which,  I  remember,  seemed  to  me  a  right  clever 
name  to  give  a  darky.  And  I  used  to  like  to  go  to 
this  grotto,  and  crown  myself  with  a  wreath  of  wild 
flowers,  and  make-believe  to  myself  that  I  was  the 
nymph  Egeria  waiting  for  her  mortal  lover  Numa." 

Here  she  paused  and  looked  at  me  musingly,  with 
the  mystic  light  in  her  eyes  that  almost  renewed  the 
illusion. 

"Your  hair  is  gray  like  his/9  she  said  in  a  remini 
scent  tone,  "but  not  from  wisdom.  I  reckon  your 
gray  locks  prove  nothing  for  you  on  that  score." 

It  really  wasn't  polite,  but  feeling  that  Olympians 
may  have  a  different  social  code  from  ours,  I  frankly 
agreed  with  her.  There  was,  I  thought,  small  need 
of  a  ghost  or  goddess  come  from  buried  Rome  to 
tell  me  this. 

"But  that's  really  why  I  have  come,"  she  went  on 
kindly.  "I  helped  him,  you  know  (since  you  will 
identify  me  in  my  ancient  divine  character)  and  I 
can  help  you.  .  .  That  is,  of  course,  if  you  will  try 
to  be  worthy  of  yourself  and  of  me,  and  learn  your 
lessons  as  well  as  Numa  learned  his.  Although," 


230  ADVENTURES    IN 

she  added,  with  a  slight  faltering,  "I  fear  you're  not 
nearly  so  biddable  as  he  was." 

I  could  only  agree  with  her  again. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  dash 
of  hopefulness,  "since  you've  been  brave  and  imagi 
native  enough  to  see  Egeria  at  the  Martha  Wash 
ington,  you  can't  be  all  bad,  and  we  must  try  what 
can  be  done  to  bring  out  the  good  in  you.  Heaven 
knows  you  need  it!" 

And  then  after  a  pause,  with  the  mystic  light  in 
vading  her  eyes  so  that  they  glowed  like  the  old-rose 
flame  in  her  glass  of  Bordeaux, — 

"Egeria  will  come  to  you  again,  I  guess." 

"But  when,  dear  goddess?"  I  pleaded. 

Her  only  answer  was  an  enigmatic  smile  wherein 
the  warmth  of  her  soul  perhaps  faintly  shadowed 
forth  a  promise. 

"And  now  take  me  back  to  the  Martha,"  she  said, 
"where  all  proper  goddesses  and  other  seemly  per 
sons  should  be  housed  and  bedded  by  one  after  mid 
night." 

I  did  as  she  bade  me,  and,  goddess  though  she 
might  be,  I  saw  that  her  steps  lingered  along  the 
Great  White  Way,  while  she  stopped  and  gazed 
earnestly  at  the  far  twinkling  cressets  of  Fifth  Ave 
nue. 

Was  it  again  my  wayward  fancy,  or  did  I  hear 
her  say  to  herself,  with  a  mixture  of  scorn  and  pas 
sion, — "O  for  one  hour  of  the  Appian  Way,  or  even 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  231 

a  few  minutes  by  the  Scsean  Gate!"  ...  At  the 
door  of  the  Martha  she  gave  me  her  hand,  with  a 
perfectly  contemporaneous  smile. 

And  there  the  matter  rests — for  the  present. 


E 


FEN  if  He  did  take  away  His  old  Paradise, 
there  could  have  been  no  Paradise  without 
the  Woman.  And  She  remains! 


232 


TO  THE   SHADE   OF   LAMB 

IN  what  bodiless  region  dost  thou  now  sojourn, 
O  Carolus  Agnus,  with  thy  slim  shy  soul  an 
swering  to  what  was  erst  its  earthly  integu 
ment?  Art  thou, — if  daring  conjecture  may  follow 
thee  beyond  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
— somewhere  in  the  vast  stellar  interspaces  (for  the 
"downright  Bible  heaven"  were  not  for  thee)  — 
wandering  forlorn  with  Her  who  companioned  thy 
earth  journey?  Or  (and  to  this  chiefly  doth  my 
fancy  cleave)  art  thou  sheltered  in  some  quiet  neb 
ula,  remote  from  all  that  vexed  thy  spirit  in  its  infe 
rior  transit,  some  celestial  image  of  thy  terrestrial 
Islington;  sharing,  as  of  yore,  sweet  converse  with 
Coleridge,  and  Hazlitt,  and  Hunt,  and  Godwin, 
and  all  that  rare  company  in  whose  variant  humor 
thou  wert  wont  to  delect  thy  sublunary  leisure?  Not 
otherwise  would  the  kind  Fates  ordain;  nor  would 
She,  the  fond  guardian  of  thy  mortal  course,  be 
wanting  to  this  reunited  fellowship.  She  to  whom 
thy  constant  heart  pledged  a  most  pure  sacrifice. 
Yes,  and  it  is  sweet  to  believe  that  her  old  office,  in 
token  of  her  so  great  love,  hath  not  been  taken  from 
her.  For,  as  the  high  debate  proceeds  and,  waxing 

233 


234  ADVENTURES    IN 

warm  at  some  intractability  of  Godwin's  (who  had 
always  power  to  move  thee)  thou  retortest  in  shrill, 
impedimental  fashion,  She  lays  to  lip  an  admonitory 
finger;  and  thou,  observant  of  that  familiar  caution, 
dost  smile  with  renewed  serenity,  leaving  to  the 
philosopher  a  victory  not  fairly  his  own. 

Then  Coleridge  seemeth  to  speak,  and  all  is  ad 
miring  silence.  Nothing  of  his  old  eloquence  hath 
Samuel  Taylor  lost  by  his  translation  to  a  higher 
sphere.  Nay,  he  that  was  finite  (though  in  thy 
quaint  malice  thou  wouldst  not  always  have  it  so)  is 
now,  of  a  truth,  infinite;  composing  without  con 
scious  effort  a  thousand  "Christabels,"  and  deliver 
ing,  unpremeditated,  discourse  fit  for  the  enthroned 
gods.  The  celestial  equivalent  for  "Coleridge  is 
up !"  flashes  in  a  manner  not  to  be  conveyed  by  mun 
dane  simile,  through  the  wide-scattered  ranks  of 
spheres,  thrilling  even  the  high-ministrant  Thrones 
and  Intelligences,  who  must  needs  perform  their 
elect  service  with  an  air  distraught,  as  wishing  to 
be  of  that  lower  auditory.  (Alas!  there  is  ennui 
even  in  heaven.)  While  the  immortal  Mortal 
pours  forth  a  strain  of  sublime  speech  on  themes 
forbidden  to  our  mention  here,  the  shades  come 
thronging  thick  and  fast  to  listen,  as  the  Roman  poet 
saw  them  when  Sappho  and  Alcaeus  with  their 
golden  lyres  smote  the  three-headed  Cerberus  and 
the  tumultuous  hordes  of  Pluto  into  a  ravished  si 
lence. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  235 

Utrumque  sacro    digna  silentio 
Mirantur  umbra  dicer e. 

Art  thou  happy  there,  O  Elia,  as  when  thou  didst 
tarry  upon  this  green  earth?  Dost  thou  repine  be 
side  the  celestial  Abana  and  Pharpar,  for  the  "un 
speakable  rural  solitudes,  the  sweet  security  of 
streets  ?"  Wouldst  thou  gladlier  tread  again  the 
everlasting  flints  of  London,  a  toilworn  clerk,  hiding 
in  thy  shy  bosom  a  genius  that  forever  invokes  the 
tears  and  praises  of  men;  thy  days  of  labor  sweet 
ened  by  nights  of  tranquil  study  or  social  converse 
with  the  friends  whom  thy  heart  sealed  for  its  own? 
Or  wouldst  thou,  O  Elia,  be  again  a  child  at  Christ's, 
glad  to  lay  thy  sick  head  on  a  pillow,  with  the 
image  of  maternal  tenderness  bending  over  thee 
that,  unknown,  had  watched  thy  sleep;  or  with  her, 
thy  life-mate  (whom  thou  so  playfully  didst  call  thy 
cousin,  Bridget  Elia)  bound  to  thee  withal  by  a 
more  sacred  tie  than  that  of  wedded  love, — wouldst 
thou  revisit  the  green  fields  of  pleasant  Herford- 
shire,  and  all  the  scenes  made  dear  by  so  many 
years  of  unbroken  faith  and  companionship?  Well 
I  believe  it,  for  thou  hadst  never  a  mind  for  joys  be 
yond  thy  ken.  The  factitious  raptures  of  spiritists 
were  not  for  thee,  nor  wert  thou  ever  seduced  from 
the  steady  contemplation  of  thy  ideal  of  happiness 
here  below,  by  a  disordered  vision  of  the  New 
Jerusalem.  Thou  wert  not  indeed  too  fond  of 


236  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  Old  Jerusalem — why  should  there  be  an 
other!  .  .  . 

O  rare  Spirit,  would  that  I  might  offer  thee  a  cup 
of  kindly  ale,  such  as  so  often  moved  thee  to  the 
world's  profit  and  rejoicing!  Better,  I  doubt  not, 
would  it  please  thee  than  the  o'er-besung  nectar  of 
thy  incorporeal  residence.  Thou  wert  ever  for  hu 
man  comforts — "Sun,  and  sky,  and  breeze,  and  soli 
tary  walks,  and  summer  holidays,  and  the  greenness 
of  fields,  and  the  delicious  juices  of  meats  and  fishes, 
society  and  the  cheerful  glass,  and  candle-light,  and 
fireside  conversations."  Thou  didst  ever  reluct  from 
the  fantastical  conceits  of  epic  cookery;  thou  gavest 
thy  voice  for  all  things  truly  gustable,  and,  if  thou 
wouldst  do  honor  to  the  gods,  a  leg  of  mutton  failed 
not  to  grace  thy  lectisternium.  Even  from  thy 
choicest  pages  the  sapor  of  roast  pig  rises  immor 
tal!  .  .  . 

How  canst  thou,  whose  warm  heart-beats  we  yet 
feel,  neighbor  with  phantoms, — thou  who  in  life 
wert  never  of  their  fellowship?  Thy  genial  human 
creed  forbade  thee  to  believe  much  in  the  promises 
of  men,  arrogating  a  knowledge  beyond  the  grave. 
This  earth  sufficed  thee — this  earth  that  is  the  hap 
pier  and  better  for  thy  too  brief  sojourn  upon  it. 
Millions  have  lived  since  thou  wert  called  away,  yet 
how  few  that  are  worthy  to  be  remembered  with 
thee!  We  open  thy  Book  and  the  spell  of  thy 
kindly  thought  is  upon  us.  Thy  phrases  are  loved 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  237 

and  familiar.  We  weep  with  thee  over  thy  lost 
childish  love,  which  thou  didst  again  figure  in  gra 
cious  allegory  as  the  Child-Angel  who  goeth  lame 
but  lovely;  and  we  know  whose  heart  lies  buried 
with  Ada  that  sleepeth  by  the  river  Pison.  Thy 
tenderness  for  thy  Sister — the  great  love  and  trag 
edy  of  thy  life — is  writ  in  gold  where  none  but  an 
gels  may  turn  the  page.  Thou,  whose  earth-passage 
was  scarce  noticed,  art  now  become  a  treasure  to  all 
feeling  hearts.  Thou  wert  indeed  a  man  and  a 
brother,  with  thy  full  share  of  human  weaknesses, 
which  thou  didst  not,  in  craven  humility,  accept  as 
a  token  of  divine  reprobation,  but  didst  rather  cover 
them  as  with  a  mantle  of  light,  in  thy  true  and  mod 
est  virtues.  Thou  wouldst  reject  the  title  of  saint 
with  the  fine  irony  that  so  well  became  thee;  yet  of 
many  is  thy  saintship  approved  who  would  agnize 
few  others  in  the  calendar.  Thy  soul  was  full  of  an 
tique  reverence,  though  it  shrank  from  the  fictile 
creeds  of  men.  A  Christmas  carol  was  to  thee 
worth  all  the  psalmody  in  the  world;  a  kind  heart 
all  the  theology  and  word-worship.  Thou  couldst 
see  no  evil  in  thy  fellow  man  which  thou  wouldst 
not  readily  forgive — save,  perhaps,  unkindness. 
Thy  feeling  toward  women,  expressed  in  the  most 
gracious  of  thy  written  words,  would  alone  keep  thy 
name  sweet  for  many  a  future  generation.  Within 
thy  heart,  thy  virgin  heart,  cheated  of,  yet  ever 
faithful  to,  its  only  dream — there  bloomed  the  white 


238  ADVENTURES    IN 

flower  of  chivalry.  Cockney,  as  they  called  thee, 
loyal  to  thy  London  pots  and  chimneys,  thou  wert  as 
knightly  as  Bayard,  as  tender  as  Sidney;  and  the 
world  may  well  regret  thee  as  born  out  of  thy  due 
time.  Yet  herein  is  the  proof  of  thy  rare  distinc 
tion — that  thy  life,  humbly  derived,  humbly  ful 
filled,  still  sheds  an  interior  light  which  turns  all 
into  beauty;  invests  the  poor  and  unworthy  circum 
stances  of  thy  earth-progress  with  the  grace  of  ro 
mance;  and  the  farther  thou  recedest  from  us,  draws 
us  the  more  to  thy  attaching  and  ennobling  genius. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  239 


SLEEP 

«1p\  LESSED  be  the  man  that  invented  sleep," 
r^    says  the  wise  Sancho.     All    great    brain- 
*••    *    workers  have  been  good  sleepers  and  long 
sleepers,  nothing  serving  like  sleep  to  restore  the 
delicate  tissues  of  the  brain,  worn  thin  by  mental  ef 
fort.     There  have  been  exceptions,  but  they  were 
not  long  livers. 

Mr.  Edison,  though  as  great  a  man  as  need  be 
cited,  holds  a  contrary  view;  four  hours,  he  thinks, 
being  enough  for  sleep.  The  authorities  are  against 
Mr.  Edison,  as  regards  the  really  first-class  think 
ers  of  the  world.  That  the  great  inventor  is  himself 
an  exception  (as  we  are  led  to  believe)  goes  merely 
to  prove  the  rule. 

The  list  of  good  sleepers  among  literary  men  is 
fortifying.  "Health  is  the  first  Muse,"  says  Emer 
son;  and  sound  sleep  is  the  first  mark  of  the  healthy 
man.  One  cannot  but  figure  Rabelais  as  a  great 
lusty  sleeper  like  his  own  Gargantua.  A  giant  re 
quires  a  giant's  sleep,  and  one  must  have  slept  well 
to  have  earned  the  privilege  of  keeping  the  world 
awake  during  several  centuries.  Insomnia  was  un 
heard  of  in  that  immortal  Abbey  of  Thelema. 
Montaigne  was  a  luxurious  sleeper,  and  spent 


240  ADVENTURES    IN 

more  hours  in  his  bed  than  in  his  famous  tower. 
His  essays  have  lasted  the  better  for  it.  Herein  his 
great  time-fellow  Shakespeare  agreed  with  him, — 
who  has  written  so  beautifully  of  nature's  chief  boon 
to  man? 

Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveled  sleave  of  care. 

Is  not  this  the  very  finest  thing  that  ever  was  said 
on  the  subject? — a  favorite  subject,  too,  with  the 
great  bard.  Taine  says  somewhere  that  Shakes 
peare's  mighty  genius  was  conditioned  by  a  full 
health  unknown  in  our  later  day,  that  has  sometimes 
regarded  genius  as  a  symptom  of  disease.  We  can 
be  sure,  at  least,  that  the  brain  which  created  "Ham 
let"  and  "Lear"  was  wont  to  sleep  sound  and  well, 
else  it  had  failed  under  its  tremendous  labor  long 
before  fifty. 

The  extremely  long  life  and  the  astonishing  lit 
erary  productiveness  of  Voltaire  were  looked  upon 
by  many  pious  people  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  as 
a  special  manifestation  of  the  power  of  the  Devil. 
This  notion  is  not  yet  wholly  abandoned.  Morley 
thinks  that  had  Voltaire  died  at  fifty,  he  would  have 
left  no  enduring  name,  his  best  work  having  been 
done  after  that  age.  We  see  now  that  it  was  sleep 
and  moderation  in  all  things  which  preserved  Vol 
taire — not  the  Devil.  He  would  remain  in  bed  for 
weeks  at  a  time — not  ill,  but  resting  and  recuperat 
ing.  Mark  Twain  has  taken  a  hint  from  the  great 
Frenchman,  and  shown  us  how 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  241 

"To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose." 

Goethe,  who  ranks  as  the  greatest  creative  mind 
since  Shakespeare,  and  who  to  short-lived  men 
seemed  to  rival  the  gods  in  his  age  and  beauty  and 
power — owed  much  to  sleep.  Fourteen  hours  was 
his  regular  tale,  and  it  so  preserved  the  vigor  of  his 
mind  that  a  full  half-century  divided  the  first  from 
the  second  "Faust."  In  his  old  age,  as  Heine  tells 
us,  he  looked  like  Jupiter,  and  surely  his  unusual 
span  of  life, — peaceful,  creative,  beneficent, — had 
much  that  was  divine  about  it.  In  his  passions,  too, 
he  greatly  resembled  the  old  pagan  gods — but  I 
must  not  stray  from  my  theme. 

Balzac  slept  badly,  and  giant  as  he  was,  to  this 
fact  must  be  attributed  his  premature  break-down. 
He  had  a  theory  that  the  creative  faculties  deterior 
ate  under  much  sleep,  and  so  he  worked  at  night, 
stimulating  himself  with  the  strongest  coffee,  and 
ordinarily  slept  but  a  few  hours  in  the  day-time. 
Gautier  tells  us  how  his  stertorous  breathing 
sounded  through  the  house  like  that  of  some 
wounded  animal.  Had  Balzac  more  wisely  regu 
lated  his  sleep  and  taken  the  rest  his  enormous  la 
bors  needed,  he  would  perhaps  have  lived  to  finish 
his  "Human  Comedy." 

To  some  extent,  Dickens  had  the  same  unfortu 
nate  habit  of  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends. 


242  ADVENTURES    IN 

Though  he  commonly  did  his  stint  of  work  in  the 
cheerful  day,  his  brain  became  abnormally  active 
under  the  spur  of  creative  effort,  and  often  drove 
him  forth  to  prowl  about  London  the  long  night 
through.  On  this  account,  we  have  some  wonderful 
sketches  of  London  in  the  dark  hours — but  they 
scarcely  make  up  for  the  fact  that  Dickens  died 
under  sixty. 

His  great  rival  Thackeray  was  a  few  years 
younger  when  he  passed  away  in  his  sleep.  The 
doctors  found  that  every  vital  organ  was  worn  out 
and  that  he  had  died  as  quietly  and  with  as  little 
warning  as  a  clock  gives  in  running  down.  "I  have 
taken  too  many  crops  out  of  the  brain,"  he  had  said, 
foreseeing  his  early  death.  But  the  tale  of  lost  or 
broken  sleep  was  doubtless  the  chief  cause. 

Great  men  of  action  are  mostly  good  sleepers, 
and  some  very  great  ones  have  had  the  enviable  ca 
pacity  of  sleeping  at  will,  under  all  circumstances. 
We  read  that  when  the  executioners  went  in  for  the 
brave  Argyl,  in  order  to  fetch  him  away  to  his 
death,  they  found  him  sleeping  as  peacefully  as  a 
child.  It  is  easy  to  believe  that  Raleigh  slept  well 
on  the  night  before  his  most  unmerited  death.  If 
the  gallant  Essex  waked  often,  be  sure  that  it  was 
not  from  fear,  but  only  because  his  heart  was  torn 
by  the  black  treachery  of  Francis  Bacon. 

Napoleon  could  sleep  at  will,  but  he  began  a  long 
suicide  when  he  ordered  his  secretaries  to  waken 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  243 

him  on  the  receipt  of  ill  news.  But  in  no  event 
would  his  devouring  mental  activity  have  let  him 
sleep  long — the  master  was  too  conscious  of  his 
world!  When,  however,  the  need  of  rest  became 
imperative,  he  yielded  to  it  without  ceremony.  We 
read  of  his  dismissing  a  crowd  of  petitionary  Ger 
man  princes  before  they  could  open  their  mouths, 
with  the  cry,  "Berthier,  send  these  people  away, — 
I  must  sleep  fifteen  minutes!" 

Fate  lurks  in  little  things.  Had  Napoleon  given 
himself  sleep  enough,  or  had  he  never  risen  in  the 
night  to  read  his  despatches,  there  might  never  have 
been  a  Waterloo,  and  his  descendants  might  to-day 
be  lodging  at  Versailles. 

And  a  much  better  thing! — Ney  would  not  have 
died  the  death  of  a  traitor  at  the  hands  of  his  own 
countrymen.  Has  France  lost  the  mould  of  such 
heroes?  In  the  Comte  de  Segur's  account  of  the 
Retreat  from  Moscow — the  most  thrilling  narra 
tive  of  the  kind  since  Caesar's  Commentaries — we 
read  how  this  great-hearted  soldier  defended  the 
retreat  of  the  starving,  frozen  fragment  of  the  fin 
est  army  Europe  ever  saw.  To  me  it  seems  the 
noblest  story  in  the  world,  and  if  there  ever  were  to 
be  an  excuse  for  war,  such  heroism  would  furnish  it. 
In  that  most  striking  act  of  a  great  drama,  I  like 
nothing  better  than  the  picture  of  the  Marshal  Ney 
— the  bravest  of  the  brave,  as  he  was  justly  called — 
guarding  the  huddled,  perishing  end  of  the  Grande 


244  ADVENTURES    IN 

Armee  from  the  constant  attacks  of  the  Russians; 
sharing  all  the  privations  and  miseries  of  the  com 
mon  soldier;  and  between  repulses  of  the  enemy, 
wrapping  himself  in  his  cloak  and  taking  his  rest 
calmly  in  the  snow — a  more  truly  heroic  figure  than 
Napoleon  at  the  head  of  the  column.  .  .  . 
Great  and  small,  let  us  get  our  sleep. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  245 


FORTY  YEAR 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. — Thackeray. 

YOUTH  is  the  season  of  adventure,  of  faring 
forth  every  day  to  a  new  world,  of  doing 
many  things  and  nothing  long.  It  is  the 
time  (as  one  who  tried  it  right  hardily  has  said) 
"to  go  flashing  from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the 
other,  both  in  mind  and  body;  to  try  the  manners 
of  different  nations;  to  hear  the  chimes  at  midnight; 
to  see  sunrise  in  town  and  country;  to  be  converted 
at  a  revival;  to  circumnavigate  the  metaphysics; 
write  halting  verses;  run  a  mile  to  see  a  fire,  and 
wait  all  day  long  in  the  theatre  to  applaud  'Her- 


nani.' 


Looked  at  rightly,  a  sad  enough  change  is  it  when 
a  man  must  say  a  wistful  farewell  to  the  free  spirit 
of  adventure,  and  take  his  place  in  the  stocks  of 
age.  No  greater  renunciation  is  demanded  of  him, 
until  the  last  of  all-  Perhaps  not  many  men  so 
feel  it,  for  use  and  universal  acquiescence  make  the 
yoke  easy  or  bearable. 

But  there  is  a  sort  of  man  whose  spirit  has  not 
lost  its  fire  or  aged  equally  with  his  body,  and  whose 


246  ADVENTURES    IN 

unsatisfied  youth  pines  cruelly  under  the  sentence 
of  time.  There  are  such  poor  fellows  a-plenty,  too, 
but  not  willingly  do  they  confess  their  state.  What 
chiefly  betrays  them  is  a  certain  youthful  ineptitude 
and  lack  of  heart  in  their  tied  routine,  which  agrees 
not  well  with  the  gray  in  their  hair.  Often  they 
terrify  themselves  with  the  spirit  of  revolt  that 
rises  up  in  them  at  the  daily  assumption  of  their 
enforced  slavery.  They  would  throw  off  all  bonds 
and  reject  their  fetters  as  at  twenty — in  other  words, 
they  are  moved  to  fling  away,  in  the  delirium  of  a 
sort  of  calenture,  the  comforts  and  advantages  of  a 
position  and  a  milieu  not  easily  duplicated  or  re 
covered  at  forty  odd.  Oh,  the  fit  never  lasts  long, 
but  'tis  cruel  hard  while  it  does,  and  when  'tis  done 
and  over  with,  my  man  has  a  few  more  gray  hairs 
and  a  tightening  at  the  mouth. 

Poor  young  old  boys!  Sad  bondmen  of  the 
years !  Why  kick  against  the  pricks,  why  dash  your 
selves  against  the  iron  doors?  All  vain  is  your 
struggle — the  enchanted  land  of  your  youth  is  gone 
beyond  recall,  and  you  should  not  get  a  glimpse  of 
it,  though  every  path  in  the  world  were  opened  to 
you.  Be  content  that  a  fleeting  vision  of  it  is,  at 
long  intervals,  vouchsafed  you  in  dreams ! 

Some  time  ago  I  wrote  that  thirty-five  is  the 
Great  Age  for  writing  and  thinking  men,  when  their 
knowledge  of  life  is  ripe  and  their  powers  at  the 
height.  I  discussed  the  point  with  much  eloquence 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  247 

and  fully  believed  in  my  own  conclusions — for  I 
was  then  thirty-five ! 

Let  me  quote  a  little  from  my  favorite  author: 
"For  about  the  seventh  lustrum  a  man  begins  to 
see  the  true  value  of  life  and  to  hold  a  serious  ac 
counting  with  himself.  The  spendthrift  desires  and 
ardors  of  passion  are  past — the  riot  and  the  rap 
ture  of  mere  sensuous  enjoyment  discounted,  if  not 
given  over.  Henceforth  a  man  is  no  longer  the 
fool  of  his  senses — unless  he  be  a  fool  from  his 
mother's  womb.  The  universe  has  steadied  itself 
in  his  gaze;  men  cease  to  appear  unto  him  'as  trees 
walking';  the  eternal  questions,  Wherefore? 
Whither?  recur  with  a  persistence  that  will  not  be 
laid  to  sleep. 

"Up  again,  brave  heart,  thy  best  work  is  still  to 
be  done !  Thou  art  tried  and  tempered  and  purified 
for  the  Great  Task.  Fear  not.  In  this  dread  mo 
ment  of  blank  and  silence  that  follows  the  tumultu 
ous  hour  of  youth,  thou  art  but  receiving  thy  con 
secration.  The  God  in  thy  breast  stirs — awakes! 
— thou  hast  attained  the  dignity  of  Man." 

Ah  well !  I  would  an  I  could  now  make  as  good 
a  brief  for  forty  year — that  great  disillusioner,  that 
age  of  iron — for  time  has  not  stood  still  with  me 
since  I  penned  the  above.  But  to  be  strictly  honest 
with  the  reader  and  myself,  I  can  not  bring  my 
laggard  pen  to  such  a  feat;  my  doubting  heart  hangs 


248  ADVENTURES    IN 

back  and  will  not  give  its  message  of  consent  to 
brain  and  hand.  Even  with  my  vanity  bidding 
against  my  judgment,  I  dare  not  make  a  false  ap 
praisal  of  life — nay,  must  I  rather  confess  that 
thirty-five  still  rises  like  Pisgah  from  the  plain,  the 
Mount  of  Vision  and  the  Hill  of  Achievement.  I 
will  not  unsay  a  word  that  I  said  when  my  feet  were 
planted  on  that  glory-crowned  summit  and  my  heart 
was  filled  with  a  rapture  of  things  unutterable, — 
that  were,  alas,  not  to  come  true !  Yes,  I  will  be 
honest  with  myself,  though  I  am  a  little  overpast 
the  cold  self-deceiving  climacteric  of  forty  years. 

Oh,  something  is  to  be  said  for  forty  year,  of 
course,  and  even  as  against  the  epochal  thirty-five. 
I  have  lost  but  I  have  also  gained  somewhat — yes, 
I  am  very  sure  of  that.  But  Nature  still  beats  us 
at  this  kind  of  barter,  and  I  am  even  surer  that 
what  I  have  gained  was  not  worth  what  I  gave. 
It  is  not  for  my  comfort  to  inquire  too  curiously 
into  that  which  I  have  lost  since  I  left  the  Great 
Age  behind  me. 

Bernard  Shaw,  with  his  favorite  trick  of  doing 
up  a  truism  in  a  paradox,  says  somewhere  that  every 
man  after  forty  is  a  scoundrel.  So  he  is,  and  the 
more  or  less  depends  on  his  consciousness  of  the 
fact.  What  Shaw's  saying  really  means  is,  that 
youth  being  done  with,  men  give  themselves  to  the 
worship  of  self  and  the  cultivation  of  the  Main 
Chance  with  the  perfect  singleness  of  aim  that  in- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  249 

sures  success.  The  sacrifices  and  generosities  are 
over  and  past;  the  self-calculations,  the  prudences 
— ah  me !  I  fear,  the  meannesses — now  have  their 
long  inning.  Man,  if  not  a  fool  or  a  poet,  now  be 
comes  sophisticated,  keeps  perfect  faith  with  no 
one — that  silly  dream  of  our  jelly-fish  period! — 
and  applauds  himself  for  a  species  of  cunning  of 
which,  a  few  years  back,  he  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  the  marrow. 

About  this  time  he  begins  to  take  that  absorb 
ing  interest  in  himself  which  he  used  to  find  so 
hateful  in  another.  He  tells  himself  that  all  a  ra 
tional  man's  effort  should  be  directed  to  one  end 
and  that  a  simple  one — to  win  some  good  measure 
of  comfort  and  security  for  the  latter  half  of  life 
(he  does  not  expect  to  quit  the  game  under  eighty). 
The  Osiers  are  right  as  to  this,  that  about  the  for 
tieth  year  man  consciously  begins  his  homing  jour 
ney;  being  then,  as  the  French  say,  I'homme  sur  son 
retour.  He  will  tell  you  that  he  is  at  his  best  and 
ask  you  to  feel  his  muscles,  etc.,  but  all  the  same 'he 
takes  extraordinary  measures  to  preserve  himself. 
The  cunning  of  age  shows  through  his  florid  ma 
turity;  the  fine  recklessness  of  youth  striving  in 
vain  to  spend  its  capital  of  hope  and  health  ,is 
gone.  He  goes  to  bed  early,  by  system — a  sure  sign 
that  the  preoccupations  of  senility  are  already  upon 
him.  He  may  stay  up  for  a  friendly  wassail  with 
you,  under  somewhat  of  compulsion,  but  long  ere 


250  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  chimes  you  will  have  a  yawner  on  your  hands. 
From  being  a  waster  of  time,  he  is  changed  into 
a  niggard  economist.  Once  he  lost  days  and  weeks ; 
now  he  makes  a  jealous  audit  of  the  hours  and 
minutes.  His  eye  is  on  the  clock. 

Now,  if  he  be  rather  a  thinking  than  an  acting 
man,  he  will  be  content  with  whatever  lot  assures 
him  a  decent  freedom  of  mind  and  a  tolerable  ex 
emption  from  the  lowest  cares  of  existence.  Though 
he  may  not  be  able  to  call  any  house  his  own,  he 
should  at  least  have  one  quiet  room  to  himself  in 
the  house  of  his  tenancy,  where  he  may  indulge  his 
feelings  of  independence  to  the  utmost.  The  mat 
ter  is  not  so  simple  either — there  are  those  rich  in 
houses  who  cannot  compass  it.  For  it  is  possible 
to  acquire  much  realty  and  yet  not  to  possess  your 
own  soul,  as  we  see  every  day.  But  the  thing  is 
important,  for  the  reason  that  the  chief  value  of 
the  decline  of  life — setting  in,  we  may  as  well  admit, 
about  forty — lies  in  its  fitness  for  and  proneness 
to  the  contemplative.  By  reflection  the  man  doubles 
his  days,  as  well  as  the  enjoyments  and  solaces 
thereof.  And  herein  Nature  seems  to  compensate 
us  in  no  small  degree  for  our  lost  youth  when  the 
fierce  ardor  of  delight  was  such  that  we  kept  no 
count  of  time  and  were  as  one  who  knows  that  he 
has  supped  well,  yet  cannot  recall  the  dishes  of  the 
banquet.  The  young  eat  and  forget:  the  old  digest 
and  remember. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  251 

Again,  age  is  really  more  in  love  with  life  than 
youth,  though  it  pretend  otherwise;  and  it  fears 
death  more.  I  have  seen  young  boys  and  girls  die 
with  calm  courage;  I  have  seen  men  in  the  strong 
noon  of  life  fold  their  hands  and  pass,  "gentlemen 
unafraid;"  while  old  gaffers  and  grandames  long 
past  the  Psalmist's  limit,  cluttered  in  ghastly  terror 
at  sight  of  the  Grim  Reaper.  This  is  despicable, 
of  course,  and  our  forty-year  philosophy  should  be 
proof  against  it.  Let  us  stay  as  long  as  we  may, 
but,  when  bidden,  let  us  go  with  dignity.  The  lei 
sure  for  meditation  which  age  covets  as  its  darling 
desire  and  which  is  its  best  appanage,  should  be 
turned  to  worthy  account.  It  can  afford  nothing 
better  than  a  true  temper  of  resignation  and  cour 
age  in  that  solemn  hour  of  which  Hamlet  says : 
"If  it  be  now,  'tis  not  to  come;  if  it  be  not  to  come, 
it  will  be  now;  if  it  be  not  now,  yet  it  will  come: 
the  readiness  is  all." 

Time  stays,  says  an  old  song,  we  go! 

Strange  how  slow  we  are  in  taking  to  heart  this 
truth  as  old  as  the  world.  Nothing  is  so  sure, 
nothing  so  plain  and  simple,  so  manifest  and  uni 
versal:  yet  nothing  is  so  difficult  to  realize. 

On  the  subject  of  age  and  death  every  one  of 
us  is  at  heart  a  heretic  as  stout  as  Luther.  Into 
this  deception  Nature  throws  all  her  beguiling  force 
— the  whitening  hair,  the  failing  strength,  the  un- 


252  ADVENTURES    IN 

tempering  mind,  aye,  the  hearse  next  door,  are  im 
potent  to  persuade  us.  Nay,  do  we  not,  if  we  would 
but  confess  it,  hug  the  darling  thought  that  we  are 
somehow  exempt  from  the  Universal  Sentence?  It 
is  true,  we  are  convinced  at  the  very  end  when  Age 
and  Death  settle  the  matter  between  them.  But  of 
this  we  are  happily  unconscious,  and  so  we  quit  life 
without  striking  our  flag. 

Only  the  other  day  I  held  our  first  babe  on  my 
knee,  and  now  he  opens  that  door  and  looks  upon 
me,  a  man  almost  in  his  years  and  strength.  Be 
lieve,  then,  believe  that  this  strong  heir  of  thy  youth, 
whose  unspringing  both  gladdens  and  troubles  thy 
heart,  spells  age  for  thee !  No,  I  will 

not  confess  to  a  single  year  more  than  when  he 
came,  for  have  I  not  said  it  was  but  the  other 
day?  The  other  day! — ah,  time  that  stays  and 
we  that  go,  'twill  soon  be  twenty  year! 

I  reject  the  trite  and  foolish  proofs  of  age  that 
some  persons  of  a  grave  or  sexton  turn  of  mind  will 
still  be  offering  you ;  ancients  with  eyes  purging  thick 
amber  and  plum-tree  gum,  who  out  of  envy  would 
claim  you  of  their  fellowship.  Proofs,  quotha? — 
as  that  you  love  your  indoor  ease  more  and  your 
outdoor  faring  less;  or  that  the  spirit  of  adventure 
that  once  knew  no  alien  horizon  and  would  have 
flown  with  you  on  the  wings  o'  the  morning,  now 
leaves  you,  weary  and  disenchanted,  scarce  three 
miles  from  home;  or  that  you  are  become  pettish 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  253 

about  your  sleep  and  unduly  concerned  about  your 
health;  or  that  you  measure  your  days  with  a  jeal 
ous  economy  to  which  you  never  gave  a  thought 
when  life  was  at  the  Spring. 

Foolish  proofs,  I  say  again.  What  signify  these 
things  and  the  like  but  that  a  man  has  grown  wiser 
— not  of  necessity  older!  Does  the  sublime  ignor 
ance  we  call  Youth  know  anything  of  the  value  of 
life  which  it  so  carelessly  wastes?  Does  life  really 
begin  for  us  until  we  have  a  sense  of  its  value  and 
plan  to  use  it  accordingly?  In  your  beard,  good 
Master  Sexton,  I  fling  your  silly  proofs,  your  dot 
ing  dogmas,  your  graveyard  moralities,  your  head 
stone  quips,  your  texts  of  shroud  and  tomb.  Keep 
them  for  your  own  sort,  Old  Mortality,  and  do  not 
thrust  them  upon  me — an  Immortal!  .  .  . 

Alack  and  alas! — 

"Time  stays  and  we  go." 


254  ADVENTURES    IN 


THE  LOST  GOD:    A  FABLE  OF  TO-DAY 

And  it  came  to  pass  at  noon  that  Elijah  mocked 
them,  and  said,  Cry  aloud,  for  he  is  a  god;  either 
he  is  talking,  or  he  is  pursuing,  or  he  is  in  a  journey, 
or  peradventure  he  sleepeth  and  must  be  awaked. 

Kings,  XVIII,  27. 

THERE  is  fear  in  the  Great  City  and  the 
hum  of  its  mighty  life  seems  strangely  sus 
pended.  Even  the  reckless  ones  who  dance 
ever  after  pleasure  to  the  Fiddles  of  Death,  play 
now  with  an  unwonted  languor.  A  sense  of  calam 
ity  impends,  as  it  were  visibly,  above  the  miles  and 
miles  of  towering  structures,  the  ways  of  granite  and 
steel,  the  monstrous  hive  wherein  some  millions  of 
human  ants  have  imprisoned  themselves.  Here  and 
there,  about  the  streets,  men  gather  in  groups  and 
talk,  with  anxious  faces;  mostly  their  speech  is  low 
and  grave,  but  sometimes  it  rises  high  and  threat 
ening.  These  groups  are  not  so  preoccupied,  how 
ever,  but  that  whenever  a  newcomer  approaches  all 
stop  their  talk  and  look  eagerly  unto  him,  as  for 
some  expected  tidings.  He  shakes  his  head  gloom 
ily,  and  what  word  he  brings  seems  only  to  sharpen 
their  discontent 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  255 

Men  and  boys,  carrying  bundles  of  papers,  run 
wildly  about  the  streets  and  up  and  down,  crying 
something  unintelligible  in  loud  alarming  tones. 
People  snatch  the  papers  from  them  with  frenzied 
eagerness,  yet  in  a  moment  throw  them  away  with 
curses.  I  pick  up  one  which  a  furious  man  has 
tossed  at  my  feet,  and  I  read  in  flaring  type  across 
the  front  page,  that  the  people  should  not  despair, 
as  their  God  has  not  really  abandoned  them;  that 
He  is  with  them  even  now,  but  for  His  own  inscrut 
able  purpose  elects  not  to  show  Himself  during 
a  little  while;  that  He  is  a  good  God  and  a  grate 
ful,  and  will  not  do  a  bad  turn  to  a  people  who 
have  so  devotedly  served  Him,  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  other  gods;  and  further,  the  people  are  ex 
horted  not  to  blaspheme  their  God,  nor  to  speak 
harshly  of  Him,  nor  even  doubtingly,  lest  He  take 
umbrage  and  go  away  in  very  truth. 

All  this  and  much  more  to  the  same  purport  is 
set  forth  in  big  black  type  and  in  characters  of  di 
vers  tongues,  so  that  the  many  races  of  the  Great 
City  may  gather  the  warning,  each  for  itself.  The 
most  passionate  and  fearful  anxiety  is  thereby  ex 
pressed  lest  the  people  in  their  frenzy  give  mortal 
offence  to  the  God  in  hiding.  And  amongst  the 
strange  legends  printed  hugely  across  these  papers, 
I  recognize  the  letters  of  a  most  ancient  people,  who 
once  upon  a  far  time,  in  despite  of  their  God,  set 
up  on  high  and  worshipped  a  Golden  Calf.  .  .  . 


256  ADVENTURES    IN 

I  follow  a  slowly  moving  crowd  through  a  mag 
nificent  street  which  is  literally  paved  with  wealth 
and  lined  on  either  hand  with  the  palaces  of  trade, 
daunting  the  heart  with  their  giant  massiveness  of 
stone  and  steel.  Many  policemen  are  deployed  here 
and  there  to  govern  the  movements  of  the  crowd; 
but  there  is  little  enough  need  of  their  services,  for 
the  people,  though  stern  and  sad,  are  quiet  of  mien 
and  their  talk  portends  no  violence. 

Perhaps  the  policemen  are  there  only  because 
wealth  without  a  policeman  to  guard  it  would  be 
.such  a  sight  as  has  never  yet  been  seen  in  this 
world.  The  rulers  of  this  people  are  wise  and 
would  save  them  from  sudden  shock. 

We  are  moving  on  always,  the  crowd  swelling 
as  it  proceeds,  but  still  maintaining  its  orderly  mien 
that  seems  to  rebuke  the  presence  of  the  police. 
An  extraordinary  crowd  in  its  composition  as  in 
its  manners.  Mostly  rich  appearing  and  well- 
dressed,  with  all  outward  signs  and  symbols  of 
prosperity  to  accentuate  the  anxiety — nay,  terror! 
— written  in  their  faces.  I  ask  myself,  what  means 
this  impassive  yet  sternly  determined  concourse?  A 
rising  of  respectabilities!  A  mob  of  the  moneyed! 
Law  and  order  threatened  by  those  favored  ones 
for  whose  protection  Law  and  Order  were  made! 
And  I  laugh  aloud.  Why,  the  thing  seems  too 
wildly  absurd  even  for  a  dream ! 

I  now  perceive  that  the  crowd's  objective  point 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  257 

is  a  splendid  marble  building,  stately  and  high  as  a 
cathedral,  with  doors  and  windows  defended  as  if 
against  Titans  by  massive  outer  doors  and  shutters 
of  wrought  steel.  Before  this  strong  house  the  mov 
ing  mass  of  people  in  which  I  find  myself  stops, 
fronting  a  like  crowd  from  the  opposite  direction 
and  one,  it  is  plain  to  see,  with  the  same  intent. 
They  meet  like  two  strong  but  peaceful  currents 
and  flow  over  the  broad  street,  filling  every  inch  of 
sidewalk  and  roadway  and  extending  for  a  consid 
erable  space  north  and  south  of  the  white  marble 
structure. 

All  eyes  are  fixed  on  that  with  painful  eagerness, 
as  if  it  contained  some  magical  relief  for  the  great 
fear  which  weighed  upon  the  multitude — as  if  (I 
could  not  but  think)  God  Himself  was  there  in  per 
son  to  make  answer  to  their  distress. 

And  then  at  last  it  came  to  me  that  it  was  in 
truth  their  God  whom  this  people  sought  and  whom 
they  feared  they  should  not  find  in  the  Marble 
House.  Their  God  whom  they  love  and  serve 
with  such  a  fulness  of  love  and  service  as  no  other 
god  has  ever  known.  How  else  account  for  such 
panic  and  terror  among  the  rich  and  respectable, 
unless  it  came  from  a  fear  of  losing  their  God? 

But  now  a  strong  guard  of  police  massing  them 
selves  at  the  entrance  of  the  Marble  House,  and  an 
other  force  governing  the  wings  and  flanks  of  the 
crowd,  a  thin  line  of  people  is  suffered  to  enter  at 


25  8  ADVENTURES    IN 

one  door,  reissuing  presently  from  another.  And 
I  see  that  those  who  come  out  have  something 
clutched  very  tightly  in  their  hands,  and  on  their 
faces  the  rapt  look  of  the  beatified.  Evidently,  I 
think,  they  have  seen  their  God,  and  they  bear  a 
gift  or  amulet  from  Him. 

Strange  to  tell,  the  joy  of  these  fortunate  ones 
has  no  apparent  effect  in  allaying  the  fear  and  anx 
iety  of  the  great  multitude  that  heaves  and  strug 
gles  like  a  rising  sea  outside  the  Marble  House; 
rather  they  fight  the  harder  to  get  near  it,  for  their 
impassiveness  is  now  at  an  end,  and  they  rage  like 
a  furious  tide  against  the  unyielding  barrier  of  po 
lice. 

Amongst  them  I  see  men  and  women  too  old  (I 
should  think)  to  have  any  doubt  of  God;  yet  I  de 
spair  of  finding  words  to  convey  an  image  of  the 
wild  terror  they  display:  some  are  heard  to  curse 
their  God  that  He  denies  Himself  to  them!  I  see 
beautiful  young  women  whose  beauty  is  seared  by 
the  same  horrible  fear  as  by  a  Devil's  hand.  I  see 
pious  men  in  black  dress  whose  duty  it  is  to  preach 
faith  in  God — and  they  vie  with  the  most  eager  and 
panic-stricken  in  the  crowd. 

Then  suddenly  a  man  comes  out  on  the  steps  of 
the  Marble  House  and  speaks  some  words  which  I 
take  to  mean  that  God  has  no  more  to  give  for 
this  day,  and  that  the  doors  will  be  closed  until 
further  notice. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  259 

A  howl  of  long  suppressed  rage  and  despair 
bursts  from  the  many-throated  respectable  crowd, 
the  farthest  stragglers  seeming  to  gather  the  man's 
words  as  by  intuition.  The  police  spring  to  the 
doors,  and  not  an  instant  too  soon, — the  human 
mass  coming  against  them  with  tremendous  impact. 
But  the  gates  are  builded  strong  where  this  God 
keeps  Himself,  and  hard  indeed  it  is  to  see  Him  if 
the  warders  say  He  is  sleeping,  or  not  at  home,  or 
on  a  journey. 

So  the  baffled  crowd  learn  to  their  bitter  spite, 
and  they  fall  back  cursing  and  despairing  from  the 
iron  doors  and  the  iron  police,  with  hoarse  cries  of 
"Liquidation!"  .  .  .  "Robbery!"  .  .  . 
"Ruin!"  .  .  . 

I  could  not  at  first  explain  to  myself  the  signifi 
cance  of  these  terrible  words  and  the  blind  fury  of 
the  crowd  .  .  .  until  again  I  realized  that 
these  people  had  been  actually  seeking  their  God! 


260  ADVENTURES    IN 


A  NOTE  ON  OSCAR  WILDE 

A  FEW  years  ago  I  wrote  an  essay  *  on  the 
downfall  of  Oscar  Wilde,  inspired  as  it  was 
by  the  publication  of  his  "De  Profundis." 
The  few  American  critics  who  did  me  the  honor  to 
notice  my  article  referred  to  above,  took  exception 
to  the  fact  that  I  had  accepted  Wilde's  repentance 
as  sincere,  and  they  were  at  somewhat  scandalous 
pains  to  point  out  his  relapse  into  his  old  evil 
courses — an  accusation  which,  at  the  time,  I  be 
lieved  to  rest  only  upon  such  idle  gossip  as  the  poet's 
disgrace  and  conviction  would  naturally  give  rise  to. 

The  charitable  view  held  by  these  critics,  and  I 
believe  still  held  by  too  many  people,  was  that  the 
man's  name  should  be  blotted  from  memory  and 
his  literary  legacy  annulled  since,  after  his  public 
punishment  and  professed  penitence,  he  had  again 
fallen  into  the  ways  of  sin. 

They,  and  many  with  them,  seem  to  have  forgot 
ten  the  precept  of  Him  who  said  that  even  the  just 
man  shall  fall  not  seven  times  but  seventy  times 
seven ! 

As  I  have  said,  I  did  not  at  the  time  of  writing 

*  See  Palms  of  Papyrus. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  261 

"Oscar  Wilde's  Atonement"  believe  that  in  his  last 
miserable  days  he  had  succumbed  to  those  fatal,  in 
born  propensities  which  had  brought  him  to  ruin. 
Unfortunately,  it  is  only  too  well  known  now  that 
he  did  so  succumb,  and  I  am  even  willing  to  admit 
that,  things  being  as  they  are,  British  justice  which 
destroyed  him,  was  what  the  world  calls  vindicated 
by  his  final  relapse  into  shame  and  ill-doing.  For 
had  he  not  so  fallen  again  and  again,  unable  to 
resist  the  curse  of  temptation  laid  upon  him,  or  the 
innate  plague  of  his  blood,  it  would  have  been  easy 
enough  to  class  his  repentance  with  so  much  else 
that  was  affected  and  insincere  in  his  life. 

But,  mark  you,  I  do  not  the  less  hold  that  the 
atonement  of  Oscar  Wilde  was  exemplary  and  effec 
tive,  and  that  the  world  is  not  a  whit  the  less  in 
debted  to  him  for  the  legacy  and  lesson  of  "De  Pro- 
fundis."  For  that  he  was  sincere  when  he  penned 
this  testament  of  sorrow  (in  spite  of  its  literary  art 
and  beauty) ,  no  humane  mind  will  question  a  mo 
ment.  It  is  written  in  the  tears  of  the  heart;  it 
witnesses  the  most  tragic  humiliation  of  a  man  of 
genius  that  ever  found  literary  expression;  nor  is  its 
truth  and  sincerity  to  be  suspected  because  the  in 
domitable  God-given  pride  of  genius  breathes 
through  it  all. 

But  it  seems  the  doubtful  public  that  had  previ 
ously  cried  "Crucify  him!"  wanted  to  be  very  sure 
ere  they  would  believe  in  the  penitence  of  this  great 


262  ADVENTURES    IN 

sinner;  like  Thomas  surnamed  Didymus,  they  would 
put  their  fingers  in  his  wounds  and  their  hands  in 
his  side  to  verify  for  themselves  that  his  heart  was 
really  and  truly  broken — aye,  and  they  would  even 
taste  his  tears  to  make  sure  if  these  were  salt! 

You  were  not  cheated,  O  charitable  British 
Christian  public! — the  man  was  verily  a  great  sin 
ner,  as  the  judge  and  jury  had  said,  as  he  had  him 
self  confessed,  and  especially  as  he  proved  toward 
the  wretched  end  by  sinning  again  and  again  when 
sin  had  lost  the  evil  grace  and  beauty  which  he  was 
wont  to  perversely  fancy  in  it,  and  had  become  per 
haps  only  a  means  of  self-destruction.  And  his 
heart  was  surely  broken,  too,  for  he  died  soon  after 
your  justice  was  done  with  him,  and  the  doctors 
could  see  no  other  cause  for  it.  Absolutely,  the 
whole  affair  was  without  fraud  and  conducted  in 
strict  accordance  with  British  Christian  principles! 

And  now  I  have  but  one  word  more  to  say  on 
the  still  mooted  question  of  Oscar  Wilde's  repent 
ance — a  word  that  will  not  fail  to  shock  the  literary 
Pharisees.  It  is  this:  the  sincerity  of  his  repent 
ance — the,  truth  of  "De  Profundis" — the  measure  of 
his  irremediable  sorrow — the  validity  of  his  atone 
ment — were  attested  beyond  question  forevermore 
by  the  fact  of  his  relapse  into  sin,  and  were  sealed 
with  the  sovereign  seal  of  death.  The  man's  ex 
piation  was,  in  truth,  supreme — he  could  give  no 
more  than  his  life,  executing  judgment  upon  himself, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  263 

as  he  seems  to  have  anticipated  in  the  most  memor 
able  of  his  poems: 

For  he  who  sins  a  second  time 

Wakes  a  dead  soul  to  pain, 
And  draws  it  from  its  spotted  shroud, 

And  makes  it  bleed  again, 
And  makes  it  bleed  great  gouts  of  blood, 

And  makes  it  bleed  in  vain! 

Conventional  morality  sees  only  the  stock  retri 
bution  of  the  sinner  in  the  fate  of  Oscar  Wilde 
— it  is  unable  to  conceive  that  the  end  was  of  his 
own  choosing.  Yet  to  read  it  otherwise  were  to 
slur  the  meaning  of  the  most  extraordinary  spirit 
ual  tragedy  of  our  time.  Had  Wilde's  repentance 
been  insincere,  his  sorrow  a  pose,  his  anguish  a 
literary  artifice  (as  the  critics  are  still  contending) 
the  man  would  not  have  sinned  and  died  as  he  did 
— and  the  story  for  us  would  lack  much  of  its  ter 
rible  truth  and  half  of  its  tragedy.  .  .  . 

Still  another  word,  which  perhaps  it  is  even  more 
needful  to  say.  I  have  been  taken  to  task  by  a 
certain  critic  for  printing  so  much  about  Oscar 
Wilde.  In  this  person's  view  the  offence  of  Wilde 
was  so  great  and  his  fall  of  such  unmitigated  horror 
and  disgrace  that  it  were  better  to  leave  his  name 
to  the  chanty  of  oblivion. 

My  friend  seems   to   ignore  the   fact  that  it  is 


264  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  work  of  Wilde  which  we  seek  to  honor  and 
perpetuate,  and  not  the  man  himself,  with  his  sin 
and  shame.  But  I  will  agree  that,  in  a  true  sense, 
the  man  cannot  be  dissociated  from  his  work.  What 
then?  Shall  we  refuse  the  beautiful  and  worthy 
gift  of  a  sinner?  Or  shall  we  take  what  is  good 
and  leave  what  is  evil?  In  such  a  choice  indeed 
the  world  is  never  long  doubtful,  and  it  has  already 
pronounced  its  will  in  the  case  of  Oscar  Wilde. 

Replying  to  a  like  censure  lately,  Lord  Alfred 
Douglas  said,  with  as  much  truth  as  beauty,  that 
whatever  Wilde's  faults,  he  wrote  "on  the  side  of 
the  angels."  This  is  the  literal  as  well  as  the  poetic 
fact.  The  best  of  Wilde's  work,  by  which  he  has 
a  right  to  be  judged,  is  free  from  moral  blemish. 
Our  literature  has  hardly  anything  to  compare  with 
his  exquisite  fables,  which  evince  a  fancy  as  pure 
as  the  pool  that  mirrored  Narcissus.  Many  of 
his  poems  are  as  spiritual  as  those  of  Wordsworth 
and  touch  the  soul  to  as  fine  issues.  His  essay,  "The 
Soul  of  Man  Under  Socialism,"  is  such  an  expres 
sion  of  true  humanity  as  Mazzini  would  have 
greeted  with  praise  and  tears.  And  what  is  "De 
Profundis"  if  not  a  spiritual  confession  of  the  ut 
most  poignancy  and  pathos,  relieved  only  by  the 
consummate  literary  art  of  which  the  sinner  could 
not  divest  himself? 

This  man  indeed  wrote  on  the  side  of  the  angels, 
and  the  world  is  not  so  rich  in  such  treasures  of 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  265 

beauty  that  it  can  afford  to  throw  even  one  of  his 
pearls  away. 

Let  me  remind  my  severely  judging  critic  that 
good  literature  has  the  privilege  of  living  down  the 
worst  reputation. 

The  infamy  of  Bacon  is  all  but  forgotten  in  the 
glory  of  his  literary  testament. 

In  his  time  Lord  Byron  was  the  scandal  of  Eu 
rope,  and  the  rumors  about  his  domestic  life  were 
such  as  to  threaten  him  with  the  rude  justice  of 
the  London  mob.  He  was  believed  to  be  a  mur 
derer  and  he  was  .known  to  be  a  seducer.  Virtu 
ous  poets  like  Southey  and  Wordsworth  denounced 
him  as  the  head  of  the  Satanic  School.  He  once 
drew  up  a  list  of  the  names  applied  to  him  by  the 
hostile  English  critics;  it  included  Lucifer,  Cain, 
Judas,  Belial  and  other  disreputable  personages  of 
both  worlds.  Long  years  after  his  death,  the  most 
horrible  accusation  of  all  was  brought  against  him 
— he  was  publicly  accused  of  a  crime  the  worst  that 
can  be  proposed  to  a  Christian  conscience,  and  with 
such  evidence  as  seemed  likely  to  convince  the  world 
of  his  guilt. 

We  know  now  that  Byron's  fame  was  not  black 
ened  by  the  infamy  with  which  Mrs.  Stowe  had 
charged  herself,  in  order  to  execute  the  vengeance 
of  an  implacable  woman.  Few  people  could  now 
say  what  the  accusation  precisely  was;  the  majority 
of  reading  people  know  nothing  about  it. 


266  ADVENTURES    IN 

The  other  day  I  picked  up  a  copy  of  Mrs.  Stowe's 
book  on  a  second-hand  bookstall.  It  has  long  since 
been  out  of  print,  but  the  fact  was  not  considered 
in  the  price  I  paid  for  it.  You  need  not  ask  a 
better  proof  of  the  rule  which  I  formulated  above 
and  which  I  dare  believe  is  original  with  me: 

Good  literature  has  the  privilege  of  living  down 
the  worst  reputation. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  267 


rO  my  mind  there  is  nothing  so  enviable  as 
the  true  literary  character,  neither  is  there 
anything  so  much  counterfeited.  The  serv- 
um  pecus,  the  base  horde  of  literary  pretenders  upon 
whom  Horace  vented  his  scorn  two  thousand  years 
ago,  are,  thanks  to  the  universal  printing  press,  more 
numerous  in  the  world  than  ever  before.  In  high 
places  sit  the  unspeakable  gods  of  smugness,  giving 
their  inane  code  and  precept  to  a  blindly  credulous 
multitude.  There  is  even  more  sham  literature  than 
sham  religion.  Each  has  its  muftis  and  high  priests, 
its  hierarchies  and  consistories.  Each  deals  out  its 
anathemas  and  excommunications,  and  each  is  doing 
its  utmost  against  the  Spirit  of  Light. 

Would  I  might  believe  that  I  have  some  claim, 
however  slight,  to  the  true  literary  character — that 
which  has  wrought  so  powerfully  for  truth  and  jus 
tice,  for  liberty  and  humanity  in  the  world.  No, 
I  should  not  dare  to  believe  that  the  torch  has  been 
committed  to  my  weak  hand — too  happy  shall  I 
be  if  a  ray  of  its  light  fall  upon  me! 


268  ADVENTURES    IN 


MY  RELIGION 

No  sensible  man  tells. — Disraeli. 

SOME  kind  person  sends  me  a  religious  print, 
thoughtfully    marked    with    a    blue    pencil, 
wherein   I   find  myself  dubbed   an  Atheist! 
And  in  pica  ! ! 

Is  it  not  to  smile?  Readers,  I  appeal  to  you — 
I  mean  all  of  you  who  have  followed  me  from 
book  to  book — am  I  not  the  most  believing  man  in 
the  world?  I  do  not  say  the  most  orthodox,  mind 
you,  for  there  is  a  difference  'twixt  belief  and  ortho 
doxy,  'twixt  faith  and  dogma.  Now  I  was  born 
for  worship — my  soul  is  always  consciously  worship 
ping — but  I  can't  do  it  in  a  strait-jacket,  that  is  to 
say,  in  a  theological  formula.  But  for  true  religion, 
let  me  say  of  my  unknown  censors  what  a  great  man 
once  said  of  his: 

Some  nameless  casuists  are  pleased  to  say 
In  nameless  print,  that  I  have  no  devotion, 
But  set  those  persons  down  with  me  to  pray, 
And  you  shall  see  who  has   the  properest   notion 
Of  getting  into  heaven  the  shortest  way. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  269 

People  who  cherish  a  religion  of  words,  words, 
words,  find  it  easy  in  their  uncharitableness  to  call 
such  names  as  Atheist.  Plainly,  I  don't  believe  there 
is  an  atheist  in  the  world,  worth  taking  into  account 
— those  who  call  the  name  and  those  who  accept  it 
have  the  same  loose  habit  of  thinking.  Even  Hux 
ley  rejected  it  and  adopted  the  more  scientific  desig 
nation  of  Agnostic — one  who  does  not  know;  and 
with  this  even  the  uncompromising  Ingersoll  was 
content.  The  greatest  fool  in  the  world  were  he 
who  should  say,  "There  is  no  God." 

I  do  not  care  to  be  so  written  down,  even  in  an 
obscure  religious  print,  and  so  I  beg  leave  to  restate 
here,  in  a  modified  form,  my  personal  Confession 
of  Faith,  published  with  sundry  variations  in  "Papy 
rus"  some  years  ago,  and  doubtless  unknown  to  all 
but  a  few  of  my  readers. 

I  believe  in  a  Power  Unknown  that  we  call  God 
and  that  we  vainly  seek  in  our  finite  way  to  under 
stand  by  endowing  It  with  human  attributes. 

I  believe  in  that  most  ancient  religion  from  which 
the  world  has  drawn  its  moral  code  and  its  con 
ception  of  the  One  God — from  whose  bosom  Chris 
tianity  sprang  and  in  whose  Sacred  Books  it  claims 
to  read  its  own  title  and  warrant. 

I  believe  in  the  Holy  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
One  and  Apostolic,  in  which  I  was  born  and  bap 
tized  some  forty  odd  years  ago  near  the  town  of 


27o  ADVENTURES    IN 

Mallow,  in  the  famous  and  pleasant  County  of 
Cork,  Ireland.  I  was  duly  inducted  into  the  faith 
nine  days  after  my  birth — pious  Irish  parents  lose 
no  time  in  giving  their  children  about  the  only  thing 
very  many  have  to  give  them.  I  can't  claim  to 
remember  very  much  about  it,  but  my  dear  mother 
used  to  say  that  I  behaved  with  great  dignity  and 
supernatural  intelligence — (a  little  strong  this,  but 
family  legends  are  to  be  respected).  It  seems  that 
when  the  priest  pronounced  the  solemn  interroga 
tion — 

"Michael,  dost  thou  renounce  the  Devil  with  all 
his  works  and  pomps?" — 

I  looked  at  him  in  a  knowing  way  that  astounded 
my  sponsors.  And  not  once  did  I  whimper  when 
I  felt  the  cold  water  on  my  head  and  breast  and 
the  baptismal  salt  in  my  mouth,  which  I  liked  least 
of  all.  Ah,  but  I  was  a  grand  Catholic  that  day, 
whatever  might  be  said  of  me  afterward! 

Well,  to  resume:  I  believe  in  the  sane  and  vig 
orous  Protestantism  which  has  done  so  much  for 
the  cause  of  human  liberty — to  my  mind  the  dearest 
and  worthiest  object  in  the  world.  I  do  not  pre 
tend,  like  so  many  others,  to  forecast  a  time  when 
it  shall  have  outlived  its  usefulness  or  its  original 
motive,  the  emancipation  of  the  human  reason  and 
conscience.  In  other  words,  I  believe  that  the  law 
of  opposing  forces  in  religion,  as  throughout  nature 
generally,  works  for  good.  Protestantism  is  as  old 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  271 

as  Paul — Catholicism  as  old  as  Peter.  I  believe  they 
are  mutually  necessary,  and  I  believe  further  that 
their  union  to-morrow  or  next  day  would  be  the 
worst  possible  disaster  to  religion,  leading  in  no 
long  time  to  a  new  Reformation  and  a  new  Protest 
antism. 

I  believe  in  the  simple  faith  of  Francis  of  Assisi 
and  Thomas  a  Kempis,  and  I  believe  no  less  in  the 
liberal  faith  of  Spinoza,  Voltaire,  Tom  Paine, 
Goethe,  Emerson  and  Renan. 

I  believe  it  was  the  same  God  who  sent  Darwin 
on  his  quest  of  the  Missing  Link  and  Damien  to 
win  a  martyr's  crown  at  Molokai. 

I  believe  in  the  Inspired  authority  of  the  Scrip 
tures,  even  to  swallowing  the  ass  of  Balaam  of  Beor, 
and  I  also  believe  in  the  Higher  Criticism  of  the 
same — which  sometimes  brings  it  very  low  in 
deed. 

I  do  not  believe  in  the  Dhoukabors,  the  Holy 
Ghosters,  the  Seven  Men  of  Tarsus,  the  Sanctified 
Rollers,  the  Hook-and-Eye  Baptists,  and  the  made- 
over  Mormon  Dispensation. 

I  believe  in  the  religion  of  Leo  Tolstoy  and  think 
that  he  is  nearer  the  pure  truth  of  the  Gospel  than 
any  church  or  creed  now  extant. 

I  believe  that  we  need  religion  much,  very  much, 
but  human  love,  justice,  forbearance  and  toleration 
far  more. 

I  believe  that  God  has  a  sense  of  humor,  though 


272  ADVENTURES    IN 

it  cannot  be  proved  out  of  the  Bible.  I  had  rather 
laugh  than  weep  with  my  God. 

Hear  the  end  of  this  matter:  I  believe  in  the 
good  of  every  religion  and  the  evil  of  none,  and 
I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  given  to  any  one  religion 
to  possess  the  whole  truth.  I  do  not  believe  that 
man  was  made,  without  his  consent,  to  be  damned 
by  a  Creator  who  botched  his  work — I  wish  to  be 
lieve  in  God  as  a  power  benign.  Therefore,  I  shall 
not  believe  that  God  would  do  what  I,  the  least  of 
His  creatures,  would  not — condemn  a  Jiuman  soul 
to  everlasting  pain. 

Lastly,  I  believe  that  love  has  supplied  us  with 
a  surer  clue  than  we  shall  gain  from  all  the  creeds. 
This  truth  I  have  learned  from  my  own  heart — 
not  from  any  church;  but  wherever  it  is  taught  or 
learned,  there  I  believe  we  are  very  near  to  God. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  273 


S^IQME  what  may,  come  what  will, 
f     .     let  wj  be  faithful  to  the  dream — 
^-^        the    poor,    unfriended    and    re 
pulsed,  beloved  and  betrayed,  cursed  and 
rejected,  defeated  and  despised,  yet  ever 
glorious  and  immortal  dream, — to  make 
this  hard  world  a  better  and  kinder  place 
for  all  the  children  of  men. 


274  ADVENTURES   IN 


THE    DEVIL 

DR.  PAUL  CARUS  hath  a  devil.  Also  he 
hath  a  literary  style,  which  is  perhaps  not 
so  easy  a  thing  to  come  by.  The  Doctor  is 
one  of  the  few  really  learned  men  in  this  country  and 
of  its  half-dozen  best  writers.  He  knows  many 
languages,  including  the  ancient  Oriental  tongues, 
and  he  carries  his  vast  erudition  with  as  easy  a  grace 
as  Renan, — whom  in  his  philosophic  habit  of  mind 
he  much  resembles.  No  German,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  the  late  Carl  Schurz,  has  ever  written 
such  pure  idiomatic  English  or  evinced  so  perfect 
a  mastery  of  our  language.  He  offers  a  complete 
refutation  of  Bernard  Shaw's  curious  dictum,  that 
no  man  fully  capable  of  the  resources  of  his  own 
tongue  can  master  another. 

But  about  his  devil:  it  is  to  write  on  the  Devil. 
In  his  excellent  magazine,  "The  Open  Court,"  Dr. 
Carus  has  published  many  learned  essays  on  the 
Devil  and  he  has  gathered  these  into  an  ample  work 
which  he  calls  the  "History  of  the  Devil."  There  is 
no  other  book  in  the  world  like  it,  and  the  Devil  and 
Dr.  Carus  have  reason  to  plume  themselves  upon 
the  work. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  275 

Now  you  would  not  suspect  a  German,  especially 
so  learned  a  one,  of  a  humorous  intent  in  writing 
such  a  book;  yet  Dr.  Carus's  history  is  one  of  pro 
found  and  ironic  humor.  For,  strange  to  say,  Dr. 
Carus  does  not  believe  in  the  Devil,  though  he  writes 
about  him  with  such  fulness  of  learning  and  pre 
sents  the  most  remarkable  collection  of  portraits  of 
him  that  can  be  seen  anywhere.  Oh,  he  believes 
that  the  world  long  believed  in  the  Devil — still  does 
to  some  extent — and  the  origins  and  consequences 
of  that  belief  are  perhaps  better  told  in  this  work 
than  ever  before. 

It  is,  in  truth,  a  strange  history,  and  looking  it 
over,  one  realizes  what  an  effort  it  cost  the  world  to 
shake  off  the  Devil — again  to  a  certain  extent,  for 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church  still  clings  to  him 
and  has  not  cut  down  the  number  of  its  holy  water 
fonts  in  our  time.  The  Presbyterian  Devil  is  also 
very  well,  thank  you,  and  doing  business  at  the  old 
stand.  The  Greek  Catholic  Devil  is  as  merry  as  a 
grig,  utterly  believed  in  as  he  is  by  the  millions  of 
Holy  Russia  whose  light  is  the  darkness  of  the  Mid 
dle  Ages.  All  in  all,  in  a  world  of  departing  di 
vinities  and  fading  faiths,  the  Devil  is  holding  his 
own  better  than  might  be  expected. 

It  was  religion,  of  course,  that  invented  the  Devil 
to  scare  the  wicked  and  sinful.  It  was  a  highly  use 
ful  invention,  and  if  there  ever  was  a  Devil,  his  la 
bors  in  this  respect  would  have  regained  Heaven 


276  ADVENTURES    IN 

for  him  long  ago.  Who  will  deny  that  the  fear  of 
the  Devil  has  saved  more  souls  than  the  love  of 
God?  .  .  . 

The  real  mischief  began  when,  through  the  work 
ing  of  human  malignity,  superstition  and  fear,  good 
people  who  had  no  business  with  the  Devil  and 
wanted  none,  forsooth,  were  sacrificed  to  him  in 
their  own  despite.  And  in  such  numbers  as  it  is 
most  difficult  to  believe.  Thus  from  1320  to  1350, 
in  Carcassonne  alone,  there  were  four  hundred  per 
sons,  mostly  women,  put  to  death  for  what  was 
called  witch-craft  or  commerce  with  the  Devil.  But 
it  was  not  until  1484  that  the  Christian  world — all 
of  one  fold  and  faith  then, — went  stark  mad  on  the 
subject.  In  that  memorable  year  Pope  Innocent 
VIII  issued  his  bull  against  all  those  "who  indulged 
in  the  dark  arts  of  sorcery  or  were  otherwise  agents 
of  Satan."  Naturally  this  "unloosed  the  dogs  of 
hell,"  and  there  quickly  followed  such  scenes  of  hor 
ror  throughout  Europe  as  we  are  loth  to  credit, 
though  vouched  for  by  the  gravest  historians. 

The  victims  were  chiefly  women.  That  sex  being 
regarded  by  the  clergy  as  the  fount  of  evil,  had  to 
bear  the  brunt  of  the  fearful  superstition.  Many 
poor  creatures  partaking  of  the  universal  frenzy, 
accused  themselves  and  were  sent  to  the  fire.  But 
nothing  was  so  easy  as  to  be  accused  of  the  impos 
sible  crime  of  witchcraft.  We  read  that  in  Spain  a 
great  number  of  people  were  condemned  to  the 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  277 

flames  upon  the  testimony  of  two  little  girls  of  nine 
and  ten  years  old,  who  "declared  they  could  see  the 
Devil  in  the  right  eye  of  any  one  possessed  of  him, 
a  sorcerer  or  a  witch."  Hundreds  of  suspects  were 
marched  before  them  and  they  picked  out  the  vic 
tims,  some  of  whom  were  little  children  of  only  six 
or  seven  years! 

Death-fires  were  blazing  merrily  all  over  Europe, 
but  still  things  looked  rather  slow  to  Pope  Adrian 
VI,  and  he  in  1523  followed  up  Innocent's  bull  with 
another  which  completely  lifted  witchcraft  or  devil- 
worship  out  of  the  class  of  infant  industries.  Every 
city  in  Europe  then  and  thereafter  had  its  quota  of 
executions — in  Italy  a  city  of  ten  thousand  people 
would  furnish  a  hundred  such  every  year.  In  1607 
the  pious  and  learned  Nicholas  Remy  (otherwise 
known  as  Remigius)  judge  under  the  Duke  of  Lor 
raine,  boasted  with  pardonable  pride  that  in  the 
space  of  fifteen  years  he  had  sent  nine  hundred 
witches  and  sorcerers  to  the  flames,  eight  hundred 
of  whom  were  women !  This  was  in  Lorraine  alone. 

By  the  way,  the  same  learned  Remy  or  Remigius 
wrote  a  book  on  witchcraft  wherein  he  piously 
avows  having  done  all  "for  the  glory  of  God."  And 
through  a  strange  and  most  just  coincidence,  he  was 
seized  with  the  madness  of  which  he  had  convicted 
so  many  and  was  himself  burned  at  the  stake,  ac 
cusing  himself  as  a  servant  of  Satan.  This  was  per 
haps  a  joke  of  the  Devil's! 


278  ADVENTURES    IN 

The  proof  or  test  of  witchcraft  or  demoniac  pos 
session  was  worthy  of  those  remote  ages  of  faith 
and  often  consisted  of  this  very  simple  process :  The 
hands  and  feet  of  the  accused  were  tied  and  she  was 
then  thrown  into  the  water.  If  she  sank  and  was 
drowned,  she  was  innocent.  If  she  floated,  she  was 
held  to  be  guilty  and  burned  alive.  Many  of  the 
greatest  minds  of  the  age,  fortified  with  the  True 
Faith  and  all  the  learning  then  to  be  had,  were  con 
tent  with  this  idiotic  demonstration.  Truly  the  world 
does  move! 

Cruelty  begets  cruelty,  madness  begets  madness. 
We  find  that  in  many  places  women  were  accused  of 
having  sexual  relations  with  the  Devil  and  confessed 
as  much,  the  same  being  set  down,  with  very  curious 
particulars,  in  the  record  of  their  trials.  They  con 
fessed  many  other  things  as  wild  and  monstrous — 
there  was  really  nothing  they  would  not  confess  in 
face  of  the  torture  and  the  fire.  A  valuable  lesson, 
but  one  which  it  took  the  world  overlong  to  learn. 

So  entirely  had  this  monstrous  delusion  taken  pos 
session  of  the  minds  of  the  people,  under  the  pre 
cept  of  priests  and  judges,  that  they  went  one  step 
farther  and  believed  in  the  demoniac  possession  of 
animals.  At  Basle  in  1470  a  rooster  was  tried  upon 
the  charge  of  having  laid  an  egg! — any  fool  could 
have  told  you  that  only  rooster  eggs  were  used  in 
making  witch  ointment !  It  is  edifying  to  read  that 
the  fowl  was  convicted  of  this  foul  offence  and 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  279 

burned  with  all  due  solemnity  in  the  town  square. 
Even  as  late  as  1740  a  cow  was  tried  and  convicted 
of  being  possessed  by  a  Devil.  The  exorcism  of  lo 
custs,  snakes,  rats,  vermin,  etc.,  was  in  these  times  a 
regular  priestly  function.  Whether  it  was  effectual 
or  not  made  no  difference  to  speak  of — if  you  have 
faith  you  shall  move  mountains !  For  some  ages, 
certainly,  the  Church  was  quite  as  much  concerned 
with  the  Evil  One  as  with  God  Himself,  and  her  his 
tory  during  many  blood-stained  years  was  filled  with 
the  works  of  the  Devil.  Strange  to  say,  when  the 
cruelty  and  madness  and  wild  absurdity  of  it  all  at 
last  struck  upon  the  minds  of  men — and  it  is  but 
fair  to  admit  that  one  or  two  good  priests  did  much 
to  destroy  the  common  superstition  of  witchcraft — 
the  Devil  at  once  disappeared  from  the  world,  with 
the  Church's  unwilling  consent.  Disappeared,  I 
mean,  with  respect  to  the  atrocities  above  glanced  at 
— the  Devil  can  never  be  ejected  from  the  Doctrine 
of  Atonement  and  the  Scheme  of  Salvation. 

To  conclude.  It  is  only  now  beginning  to  dawn 
upon  the  world  that  there  never  was  and  never  will 
be  a  Devil — excepting  the  perfectly  human  creation 
of  ignorance,  cruelty,  superstition  and  fear.  These 
four  qualities,  principally  personified  in  the  popular 
fiction  known  as  the  Devil,  caused  the  destruction 
of  thousands  upon  thousands  of  innocent  lives  dur 
ing  several  hundred  years.  They  are  still  active 
enough,  but  they  are  not  suffered  to  kill  in  the  old 


280  ADVENTURES    IN 

way.  To  this  extent,  then,  it  may  be  said  that  the 
Devil  is  dead.  But  I  miss  my  guess  if  he  will  not 
bear  watching  a  while  longer. 

Get  Dr.  Paul  Carus's  book*  and  read  all  about 
the  most  stupendously  maligned  character  since  the 
dawn  of  Christendom — the  Devil! 


*  Some  of  the  facts  referred  to  above  I  have  drawn  from  other 
sources  and  earlier  reading,  but  I  regard  Dr.  Carus's  work  as  the  best 
on  the  subject. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  281 


/F  I  am  sure  of  any  one  thing  it  is  this — that 
every  man  and  every  woman  should  have  the 
right  to  think  for  themselves.  The  most  intol 
erable  tyranny  in  the  world  is  that  of  mind  over 
mind,  and  were  the  doors  and  windows  thrown  wide 
open,  we  should  see  it  at  work  in  every  house.  Com 
plete  mental  freedom  will  be  the  last  emancipation. 


282  ADVENTURES    IN 


VOLTAIRE 

AS  the  acute  reader  will  have  suspected,  I 
place  this  article  next  to  the  one  preceding 
because  of  the  association  of  Voltaire  and 
the  Devil  in  the  minds  of  many  worthy  Christian 
people.  And  yet  the  wisest,  kindest,  wittiest  man 
that  ever  lived  was  Voltaire !  Were  the  world  such 
a  place  as  he  would  have  made  it,  we  should  not 
see  a  prison  or  a  scaffold,  a  soldier  or  a  slave,  a 
murderer  or  a  drunkard  or  a  thief,  a  fool  or  a  fana 
tic,  a  priest  or  a  prostitute. 

God  so  loved  the  world,  as  we  read,  that  he  suf 
fered  His  only  begotten  Son  to  die  for  it.  Voltaire 
so  loved  men  that  he  would  not  suffer  the  shedding 
of  a  single  tear,  or  the  effusion  of  one  drop  of  blood, 
or  the  denying  of  light  to  a  solitary  mind.  His  pas 
sion  for  righteousness  was  as  great  as  that  of  any 
of  the  Hebrew  prophets,  but  far  saner.  The 
thought  of  cruelty  and  injustice  put  his  mind  on  the 
rack,  and  from  his  pains  were  born  some  of  the 
great  evangels  of  Liberty. 

As  men  have  learned  to  improve  Nature  in  many 
of  her  processes,  so  Voltaire  sought  to  better  the 
character  of  God.  This  had  been  framed  by  rude 
and  savage  men  in  a  barbarous  age;  with  some  sub- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  283 

lime  traits,  it  bore  such  brutish  and  terrible  features 
as  its  makers  would  naturally  conceive  in  an  exag 
geration  of  themselves.  But  the  priests  declared  the 
same  to  be  a  true  likeness  of  the  Only  Living  God, 
and  it  was  death  to  doubt  or  question  what  they 
affirmed.  People  might  not  like  the  picture,  but  a 
simple  prudence  warned  them  to  keep  their  notions 
to  themselves.  They  commonly  did. 

It  was  death  even  in  Voltaire's  day,  but  he  was 
more  than  a  match  for  the  priests  in  cunning,  and 
so  he  contrived  to  say  his  say  in  one  fashion  or  an 
other.  And  all  the  years  of  his  long  life  he  labored 
at  making  a  better  and  kinder  and  more  humane 
God,  knowing  well  that  if  he  succeeded,  the  same 
would  react  upon  the  characters  of  men  and  they 
in  turn  would  become  better  and  kinder  and  more 
humane.  For  since  the  beginning  of  time  men  have 
been  as  their  gods — the  creation  more  often  of 
their  fear  and  hatred  than  their  pity  and  tenderness. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  Voltaire  succeeded  by  dint 
of  prodigious  labor  in  vastly  improving  the  char 
acter  of  God;  but,  strange  to  say,  in  doing  so  he 
lost  his  own !  This  is  one  of  the  subtle  paradoxes  of 
history. 

Does  a  man  write  himself  down  an  enemy  of 
true  religion  by  refusing  to  join  in  the  Ghost  Dances 
of  a  spurious  emotionalism  and  by  firmly  keeping 
his  hat  on  amid  all  the  grinning  fakeries  of  the 
Holy  Fair? 


284  ADVENTURES    IN 

Not  so !  The  greatest  service  that  could  possibly 
be  rendered  the  cause  of  true  religion  were  to  free 
it  from  the  things  which  bring  it  under  contempt. 
From  time  to  time,  something  is  actually  done  in 
this  way,  but  strange  to  say,  the  effort  usually  comes 
from  the  outside.  Thus,  Voltaire  did  more  real 
good  to  religion  by  pitilessly  cutting  away  the  frauds 
and  fakeries  that  had  gathered  about  it,  than  any 
other  man  that  has  ever  lived.  Stern  surgery  it 
was,  but  effective,  for  it  saved  the  patient.  In  truth, 
Voltaire  was  more  salutary  than  the  Reformation 
and  his  work  will  carry  farther.  It  is,  of  course, 
the  fashion  to  represent  him  as  an  enemy — in  fact, 
the  Arch-Enemy — of  religion.  This  is  one  of  those 
historical  canards  which  the  haters  of  truth  have 
conspired  to  perpetuate.  But  the  wise  church  well 
knows  that  Voltaire  did  her  good,  and  I  believe  she 
will  quietly  slip  him  into  the  calendar  one  of  these 
fine  days,  when  the  world  isn't  looking — but  as 
Saint  Arouet,  of  course,  in  order  to  avoid  scandal ! 

Of   Voltaire    Morley  writes: 

"Voltairism  may  stand  for  the  Renaissance  of 
the  Eighteenth  century.  .  .  .  The  rays  from 
Voltaire's  burning  and  far-shining  spirit  no  sooner 
struck  upon  the  genius  of  the  time,  seated  dark  and 
dead  like  the  black  stone  of  Memnon's  statue,  than 
the  clang  of  the  breaking  chord  was  heard  through 
Europe,  and  men  awoke  in  new  day  and  more  spa 
cious  air.  .  .  . 

"Yet  Voltaire  was  the  very  eye  of  Eighteenth- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS 


285 


century  illumination.  It  was  he  who  conveyed  to 
his  generation,  in  a  multitude  of  forms,  the  con 
sciousness  at  once  of  the  power  and  the  rights  of  the 
human  intellect.  Another  might  well  have  said  of 
him  what  he  magnanimously  said  of  his  famous 
contemporary,  Montesquieu,  that  humanity  had  lost 
its  title-deeds,  and  he  had  recovered  them. 

"Voltaire  was  a  stupendous  power,  not  only  be 
cause  his  expression  was  incomparably  lucid,  or 
even  because  his  sight  was  exquisitely  keen  and  clear, 
but  because  he  saw  many  new  things  after  which 
the  spirits  of  others  were  unconsciously  groping 
and  dumbly  yearning.  Nor  was  this  all. 
Voltaire  was  ever  in  the  front  and  centre  of  the 
fight.  His  life  was  not  a  mere  chapter  in  a  history 
of  literature.  He  never  counted  truth  a  treasure 
to  be  discreetly  hidden  in  a  napkin.  He  made  it  a 
perpetual  war-cry  and  emblazoned  it  on  a  banner 
that  was  many  a  time  rent  but  was  never  out  of  the 
field."  .  .  . 

Notwithstanding,  there  be  many  sleek,  round- 
headed  men  in  collars  that  button  behind  who  will 
ask  you  posingly,  "Who  now  reads  Voltaire?" — 
and  forthwith  evade  you,  declining,  like  Pilate, 
to  stay  for  an  answer.  I  speak  without  prejudice 
to  the  cloth,  for  it  is  my  privilege  to  count  among 
my  friends  and  readers  many  clergymen  of  different 
denominations,  Roman  Catholic,  Protestant,  Jewish, 
etc.,  with  a  sizeable  contingent  from  the  Universal 
Church  of  Man.  The  more  enlightened  of  these 
are  no  doubt  gratefully  cognizant  of  the  fact  that 


286  ADVENTURES    IN 

Voltaire  has  made  it  possible  for  them  to  wear  the 
livery  of  creed  without  complete  mental  abasement. 

The  vulgar  calumny  that  Voltaire  was  an  atheist 
is  not,  I  am  sure,  entertained  by  any  intelligent 
reader  of  mine,  be  he  lay  or  cleric.  If  his  acute 
common  sense  withheld  him  from  the  aberrations 
of  pietism,  the  man  was  none  the  less  essentially 
religious.  As  Morley  says,  "he  had  perhaps  as 
little  of  the  skeptic  in  his  constitution  as  Bossuet 
or  Butler,  and  was  much  less  capable  of  becoming 
one  than  de  Maistre  or  Paley." 

Let  us  never  forget  that  Voltaire's  humanity  was 
of  a  temper  that  honored  God  in  an  age  when 
the  living  images  of  God  were  still  defaced  by 
fiendish  tortures  and  cruelties  executed  in  the  name 
and  under  the  sanction  of  religion. 

Sirven — Galas — La  Barre — these  names  which 
the  burning  genius  of  Voltaire  traced  in  the  sky  in 
letters  that  cannot  fade,  forever  answer  for  his 
religion  as  for  his  humanity.  Foj  it  is  now  agreed 
— though  it  would  have  been  damned  as  heresy  most 
rank  in  Voltaire's  day — that  religion  without  hu 
manity  is  the  fellest  curse  that  ever  has  been  known 
in  this  world. 

What  other  writer  that  has  ever  lived  deserves 
such  a  tribute  as  this,  from  the  pen  of  Macaulay: 

UBlGOTS  AND  TYRANTS,  WHO  HAD  NEVER  BEEN 
MOVED  BY  THE  WAILING  AND  CURSING  OF  MILLIONS, 
TURNED  PALE  AT  HIS  NAME." 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  287 

But  to  return  to  the  only  point  which  I  meant 
to  take  up  in  this  brief  note:  Is  Voltaire  read  to 
day? 

Mr.  Morley  thinks  he  is,  and  he  points  out  that 
attention  has  been  called  by  every  writer  on  Vol 
taire  to  the  immense  number  of  the  editions  of  his 
works,  a  number  probably  unparalleled  in  the  case 
of  any  author  within  the  same  limits  of  time.  He 
adds:  "The  reasons  for  this  vitality  are,  that  Vol 
taire  was  himself  thoroughly  alive  when  he  did  his 
work,  and  that  the  movement  which  that  work  be 
gan  is  still  unexhausted." 

Victor  Hugo  said  that  Voltaire  was  not  a  man, 
but  an  Age.  He  is  also  the  best  witness  of  his 
time — on  many  counts  the  most  interesting  figure 
that  has  ever  appeared  in  the  tide  of  human  events. 
His  personality  is  still  the  freshest  and  most  vital  in 
the  world  of  letters — one  hates  to  write  of  him 
because  the  subject  always  demands  the  superlative. 
Goethe  called  him  "perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  lit 
erary  men."  Morley  pronounces  him  "the  most 
puissant  man  of  letters  that  has  ever  lived."  He 
wrote  a  hundred  books,  but  he  is  never  tiresome. 
To  read  him  is  to  acquire  a  complete  liberal  educa 
tion  and  an  abiding  wonder  at  the  resources  of 
the  human  intellect.  Literary  men  rejoice  in  his 
fertility,  his  wit,  his  sanity,  his  unrivalled  richness 
in  the  blended  fruit  of  thought  and  experience,  his 
savoir  vivre — in  which  perhaps  he  excelled  all  men 


288  ADVENTURES    IN 


of  the  quill.  Hi§  letters  (to  which  Mr.  Morley 
says  there  is  no  equal  or  second)  are  fascinating  be 
yond  the  power  of  words  to  express  —  even  the  notes 
of  instruction  to  the  worthy  abbe  who  collected  his 
due-bills  among  the  profligate  aristocracy  and  looked 
after  various  business  and  personal  commissions 
(Voltaire,  no  doubt,  had  his  own  motives  in  thus 
employing  a  limb  of  the  Church)  have  no  small 
share  of  that  peculiar  charm  which  seems  insepar 
able  from  the  most  careless  product  of  this  man's 
mind. 

I  cannot  conceive  of  a  happier  holiday  than  to  be 
very  slightly  ill  abed  during  a  whole  round  month 
with  the  volumes  of  the  Philosophical  Dictionary. 
If  you  limit  me  to  an  evening  or  two,  then  I  should 
say  the  Treatise  on  Toleration  or  the  Notes  to  the 
History  of  Louis  XIV. 

But  indeed  that  feast  of  mind  is  so  varied  and 
abundant  that  one  may  choose  at  random  and  not 
go  away  unfilled  or  disappointed. 

Many  worthy  people  still  believe  that  the  works 
of  Voltaire  were  written  by  the  devil.  At  this  we 
may  smile  ;  but  it  is  at  least  true  as  there  is  but  one 
God  and  one  Devil,  so  there  is  but  one  Voltaire. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  289 


A  MATHEMATICAL  MYSTIC 

I  HAVE  been  reading  about  a  singular  religious 
ecstatic,  one  indeed  of  a  new  order.  He  was 
an  Englishman  named  George  Boole,  and  the 
interesting  account  of  him  which  I  have  seen  was 
written  by  his  widow  and  published  lately  in  an  Eng 
lish  magazine.  She  believed  in  him,  of  course — 
what  poor  bewildered  groper  after  the  Unknown 
has  ever  failed  to  attach  to  himself  at  least  one  lov 
ing,  undoubting  woman?  And  if  he  be  a  Christ  and 
rise  again  from  the  dead,  will  he  not  show  himself 
first  to  her? — Nay,  will  she  not  believe  it,  even 
though  the  thing  should  not  have  come  to  pass — for 
this  is  the  highest  proof  of  faith?  Did  not  Schlat- 
ter,  the  grotesque  yet  piteous  and  tragical  Messiah, 
have  his  Magdalen?  Has  she  not  written  me  that 
he  will  come  back  to  her  from  his  grave  in  the  Mo- 
jave  Desert?  Does  not  she  await  him  always  with 
such  fervor  of  love  and  faith  as  is  only  granted  to 
women? 

Boole  was  one  of  the  most  recondite  of  mystics : 
that  his  wife  understood  the  terms  of  his  Message, 
is  a  great  compliment  to  her  intellect.  He  was  a 
profound  mathematician,  which  accounts  for  a  cer- 


29o  ADVENTURES    IN 

tain  logic  in  his  wildest  aberration.  He  wrote  a 
book  on  "The  Laws  of  Thought,"  a  psychologic 
study  expressed  in  algebraic  notation,  in  which  he 
sought  to  show  the  precise  nature  of  the  relation  of 
the  human  mind  to  the  "doctrine  of  Cosmic  unity." 
He  also  wrote  a  text-book  on  "Differential  Equa 
tions,"  in  which  he  pretended  to  give  the  key  to  all 
religious  doctrines  connected  with  the  idea  of  mira 
cle.  Poor  man !  No  doubt  he  had  convinced  him 
self — the  first  step  needful  to  Messiahship — for  his 
wife  says  that,  when  writing  a  demonstration  on  a 
blackboard,  he  looked  not  like  a  professor,  but  like 
an  artist  painting  from  a  vision.  So  she  calls  him 
the  Prophet  of  the  Unseen  Unity,  and  so  rapt  is  she 
in  his  supernal  attributes  that,  in  her  devout  memo 
rial,  she  offers  scarce  a  hint  as  to  his  human  person 
ality.  She  does,  indeed,  refer  to  glowing  letters  that 
he  wrote  her  at  one  time;  but  what  was  the  burden 
of  these  letters?  I  looked  eagerly  to  see  something 
of  the  heart  of  the  husband,  the  lover,  the  man. 
Alas !  I  found  only  this :  "/  have  made  out  what 
puts  the  whole  subject  of  Singular  Solutions  Into  a 
state  of  Unity!'  .  .  . 

Every  hierophant,  be  he  a  fakir  or  a  sincere  en 
thusiast,  ends  by  identifying  himself  more  or  less 
boldly  with  his  conception  of  Deity:  if  he  should 
fail  to  do  this,  his  followers  would  do  it  for  him. 
But  usually  he  begins  with  the  claim  that  God  speaks 
through  him;  and  then,  as  a  kind  of  economy,  he 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  291 

talks  as  God  himself.  Perhaps  that  is  why  the  He 
brew  noun  which  stands  for  God  means  also  "I  am." 
In  the  Bible,  too,  we  find  that  the  remarks  of  Moses 
are  often  mixed  with  those  of  the  Lord,  and  it  is 
not  easy  to  say  which  are  which.  I  suspect  there 
was  method  in  the  confusion,  and  no  doubt  it  was 
useful  to  Moses,  for  it  kept  the  children  of  Israel 
guessing. 

This  fact,  that  the  hierophant  ends  by  thinking 
himself  like  unto  God,  stands  out  in  all  the  history  of 
religious  imposture  as  well  as  in  the  lives  of  the 
saints.  It  is  the  one  feature  common  alike  to  the 
false  prophets  and  the  true  prophets.  It  is  the  his 
tory  in  little  of  all  the  mad  Messiahs  of  the  past 
and  of  the  future.  It  was  true  of  the  divine  Francis 
of  Assisi,  who  was  called  the  Second  Christ  (sic), 
and  it  was  true  of  that  other  Francis  of  our  time, 
who  died  in  the  western  desert  and  who  used  to  re 
ceive,  without  embarrassment,  letters  addressed: 
Jesus  Christ,  Denver,  Colo.  It  is  the  tie  that  unites 
characters  so  diverse  as  Ignatius  of  Loyola  and 
John  Bunyan.  It  was  true  of  Savonarola  and  it  was 
equally  true  of  Martin  Luther.  It  was  true  of  Ludo- 
wick  Muggleton,  the  mad  tailor,  and  it  was  true  of 
Alexander  Elijah  Dowie,  the  cunning  fakir.  It  was 
true  also  of  George  Boole. 

A  man  cannot  add  a  cubit  to  his  stature  by  think 
ing  about  it,  neither  can  he,  even  in  his  own  mind, 
become  God  in  a  day.  The  self-apotheosis  of  Boole 


292  ADVENTURES    IN 

came  only  at  the  close  of  his  life,  after  many  years 
of  intense  meditation  and  spiritual  travail.  The  fact 
itself  of  this  man's  delusion  is  in  no  way  extraor 
dinary,  but  the  manner  of  his  arriving  at  it  is,  I  be 
lieve,  unique  in  the  history  of  religious  mania.  uHe 
suddenly  realized,"  says  his  wife,  "that  the  passage 
in  the  third  chapter  of  St.  John's  Gospel  about  the 
wind,  really  referred  only  to  the  geometric  figure 
of  the  dust-whirl  or  circular  storm,  with  its  system 
of  tangents  and  normals.  Then  burst  upon  him  the 
discovery  that  the  historic  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  what 
ever  else  he  may  have  been,  must  have  been  at  least 
a  mathematical  psychologist  of  great  brilliancy  and 
power" 

Ha ! — you  see  He  was  none  other  than  Boole  him 
self,  and  by  consequence  Boole  was  none  other  than 
He !  Excellent  foolishness ! — what  wonder  that  the 
poor  man  took  to  his  bed,  shortly  after  reducing 
Jesus  to  a  geometric  formula,  and  "never  rose 
again"?  .  .  . 

Boole's  memory,  it  should  be  added,  is  piously 
regarded  by  a  small  sect  of  his  followers  in  London. 
The  God  whom  they  worship  is  the  Christ  of  the 
Spiral! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  293 


/N  every  man's  life  pilgrimage,  however  un- 
blest,  there  are  holy  places  where  he  is  made 
to  feel  his  kinship  with  the  Divine;  where  the 
Heavens  bend  low  over  his  head  and  angels  come 
and  minister  unto  him. 

These  are  the  places  of  sacrifice,  the  meeting 
ground  of  mortal  and  immortal,  the  tents  of  trial 
wherein  are  waged  the  great  spiritual  combats  of 
man's  life.  Here  are  the  tears  and  the  agonies  and 
the  bloody  sweat  of  Gethsemane.  Happy  the  man 
who,  looking  back,  can  say  of  himself:  Here,  too, 
was  the  victory! 


294  ADVENTURES    IN 


BEING    HAPPY    THOUGH    RICH 

^  "IT  COULD  never  make  my  clients  understand," 
says  Heine,  "that  the  great  millionaire  called 

-*-  me  his  friend  because  I  never  asked  him  for 
money.  Had  I  done  so  our  friendship  would  soon 
have  been  at  an  end!" 

Among  the  privileges  and  immunities  which  per 
tain  to  the  happy  state  of  being  rich,  surely  there  is 
nothing  more  enviable  than  this — never  to  be  asked 
for  money  by  those  who  wish  to  retain  your  friend 
ship.  And  yet  simple-minded  people,  such  as  phil 
osophers  and  social  reformers,  wonder  that  the  wor 
ship  of  money  forever  increases!  Of  course,  no 
poor  man  could  afford  to  hold  his  friends  on  such 
a  condition,  for  the  poor  are  always  asking  and 
giving — loaning  to  the  Lord  they  call  it — among 
themselves;  and  this  it  is  which  sweetens  their  hard 
lot.  It  is  noble  of  the  rich  that  they  do  not  wish  to 
deprive  the  poor  of  their  greatest  pleasure,  and  so 
leave  them  a  monopoly  of  this  virtue. 

Heine's  remark  may,  at  the  first  glance,  seem 
trite  enough,  but  it  really  holds  a  striking  truth 
which  we  should  all  take  to  our  bosoms — those  of 
us,  at  least,  who  may  be  favored  with  the  friendship 
of  the  rich.  It  is  sadly  exemplified  by  the  experience 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  295 

of  a  friend  of  mine,  a  publisher,  who  had  in  a  social 
way  achieved  the  friendly  regard  of  a  very  rich  man. 
Their  intimacy  had  not  lasted  long  when  the  publish 
er's  business  began  to  decline,  and  he  was  soon  on 
the  point  of  failure.  I  have  often  figured  to  myself 
the  agony  of  my  poor  friend  while  he  sat,  devoured 
with  secret  anxiety,  at  the  rich  table  of  Dives,  who 
could  have  relieved  him  by  a  few  strokes  of  the  pen, 
yet  whom  for  the  soul  of  him  he  dared  not  ask  for 
such  relief,  owing  to  the  unwritten  compact  between 
them.  I  must  believe  that  the  sword  of  Damocles 
was  as  nothing  compared  to  the  trial  which  this  un 
lucky  little  brother  of  the  rich  was  compelled  to 
undergo.  Still,  there  must  be  immense  compensation 
in  the  mere  society  of  the  rich,  and  my  friend  may 
have  found  a  kind  of  voluptuous  pleasure  in  his  tor 
ment,  for  he  has  never  confessed  any  regret  to  me. 
It  did  not,  however,  prevent  him  from  making  a 
handsome  liquidation. 

But  to  go  on:  I  believe  that  this  whole  subject 
of  rich  and  poor — the  subject  that  chiefly  occupies 
us  through  life  and  never  becomes  wearisome — is 
generally  misunderstood,  and  this  misunderstanding 
makes  for  the  greater  comfort,  safety  and  conven 
ience  of  the  well-to-do.  We  are  brought  up  on  copy 
book  maxims  which  utterly  fail  us  at  the  touch  of 
reality,  and  yet  we  persist  in  our  delusions,  as  the 
old  woman  goes  on  hugging  the  lucky  stone  under 
her  oxter.  The  rich  are  not  the  same  rich  of  the 


296  ADVENTURES    IN 

popular  fables — the  poor  are  not  the  same  poor. 
Worst  of  all,  the  qualities  of  the  one  class  are  often 
put  for  those  of  the  other,  and  even  this  confusion 
most  of  us  can  not  see  for  the  blinders  of  false  and 
foolish  education.  These  blinders  are  fastened  upon 
us  early  in  life,  and  most  people  wear  them  content 
edly,  nor  dream  that  it  would  be  possible  to  see  bet 
ter  without  them. 

Take,  for  example,  that  hallowed  phrase,  the 
"thrifty  and  industrious  poor."  How  many  genera 
tions  have  been  fooled  by  that ! — have  put  on  their 
blinders,  grown  up,  lived  their  lives  and  passed 
away  without  discovering  the  fraud.  Why,  I  have 
never  known  any  thrifty  and  industrious  poor  who 
could  hold  a  candle  to  the  thrifty  and  industrious 
rich  of  my  acquaintance !  I  will  grant,  indeed,  that 
industry  and  thrift  are  not  unknown  among  the 
poor,  but  the  perversion  of  the  popular  legend  lies, 
I  maintain,  in  the  fact  that  we  must  go  to  the  rich 
in  order  to  find  these  admirable  virtues  in  their  full 
consummate  flower. 

Oh,  the  stern  economy  of  the  rich,  the  Spartanlike 
parsimony  of  which  they  alone  are  capable,  when 
they  do  not  wish  to  give  up  their  money!  What 
peasant's  hut  has  ever  witnessed  such  heroic  denial 
as  many  a  lordly  mansion  shall  afford?  How 
bravely  they  can  refrain  from  putting  out  the  Al 
mighty  Dollar  where  their  own  interests  or  vani 
ties  are  not  concerned!  How  they  applaud  them- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  297 

selves  for  having  withstood  an  appeal  which  per 
haps  would  have  troubled  their  conscience  had  not 
that  vague  attachment  become  identified  with  their 
bank  account!  Not  even  the  sacred  claim  of  friend 
ship  will  move  them;  for,  as  we  have  seen,  they  do 
not  give  their  friendship  to  any  one  who  might  wish 
to  borrow  their  money.  So  a  rich  person  must  exer 
cise  the  finest  tact  in  making  his  choice  of  friends, 
and  this  is  another  of  the  unheralded  virtues  of  the 
rich — inborn,  I  believe,  like  their  thrift  and  in 
dustry. 

Still  they  are  less  entitled  to  credit  on  this  account 
than  for  their  admirable  frugality — their  strength 
really  lies  in  the  weakness  of  the  intending  borrower. 
For  the  sacred  character  of  money  is  now  recognized 
as  never  before.  It  is  the  next  thing  to  God  in  this 
world  and  many  people  pay  it  a  vicarious  worship. 
The  rich  man  holds  it  as  a  divinely  committed  trust 
— not  to  be  spent,  except  for  himself.  His  poor 
friend,  seeing  the  force  of  this  solemn  obligation, 
yet  needing  the  money,  is  in  the  unfortunate  condi 
tion  of  an  advocate  who  despairs  in  advance  of  his 
own  cause.  He  fails,  of  course,  but  he  is  not  there 
fore  incensed  toward  his  rich  friend.  They  part 
more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,  each  feeling  that  a 
higher  Power  has  decided  the  matter. 

It  will  thus  be  seen  that  there  are  more  advantages 
in  being  rich  to-day  than  ever  before — that  it  is  not 
only  a  comfortable  but  even  a  holy  state. 


298  ADVENTURES    IN 

Oh,  yes!  it's  fine  to  have  the  money.  At  school, 
as  I  remember,  the  rich  boy  did  not  really  spend,  in 
treating,  as  much  as  some  of  his  poorer  playmates 
— the  instinct  to  hang  on  early  asserts  itself  and 
strengthens  with  the  force  of  years  and  habit.  He 
just  kept  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  the  fact  that 
he  was  Brown  the  rich  grocer's  son,  toadied  to  by 
the  teachers  and  all  the  school,  made  the  other  fel 
lows  fall  over  each  other  in  their  hurry  to  treat  him. 
And  he,  the  greedy  cub,  took  it  as  a  matter  of  course 
— delighted,  too,  in  the  mean  passions  which  his 
enviable  privilege  excited.  Unless  I  am  wrong,  I 
have  lived  to  see  men  act  in  the  same  way,  with  this 
only  difference,  that  the  hoggishness  and  meanness 
were  intensified.  For  such  is  the  hypnotic  power  of 
money,  or  as  the  Good  Book  puts  it,  "To  him  who 
hath  shall  be  given." 

That  money,  the  object  of  all  men's  worship, 
should  spend  its  divine  self  at  all,  is  generally  felt  to 
be  a  phenomenon,  and  so  it  happens  that  a  rich  per 
son  may  easily  and  at  small  cost  acquire  a  reputation 
for  liberality.  It  is  ten  to  one  that  such  a  person,  in 
proportion  to  his  means,  does  not  give  nearly  as 
much  as  his  far  poorer  neighbors,  and  you  do  not 
read  of  their  humble  benefactions  in  the  public  press. 
But  it  is  very  curious  how  by  a  little  judicious  "loos 
ening  up"  and  a  skillful  use  of  the  newspapers  a  rich 
man  may  come  to  be  regarded  as  a  munificent  giver. 

There  is  another  ancient  superstition  with  regard 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  299 

to  the  rich,  which  is  held  with  almost  Biblical  rever 
ence  by  many  people.  I  hate  to  disturb  it  as  I  be 
lieve  it  is  not  without  Scriptural  warrant.  I  mean 
the  idea  that  the  rich  are  not  as  happy  as  the  virtu 
ous  poor,  or  that  they  are  not  happy  at  all,  but 
rather  profoundly  wretched,  on  account  of  their 
superfluous  wealth. 

This  fable  is  also  of  the  copy-book  kind,  and  as  a 
sample  of  cheap  morality  or  gammon,  nothing  more 
popular  could  be  quoted.  It  is  always  most  sedu 
lously  inculcated  where  the  poor  are  very  poor  and 
very  many  and  the  rich  are  very  rich  and  very  few. 
Often,  in  truth,  this  precious  wisdom  is  the  only  kind 
of  education  or  philosophy  that  is  dinned  into  the 
poor.  I  will  not  deny  that  it  is  very  useful  teach 
ing,  for  the  rich,  and  it  helps  to  keep  peace  and  order 
in  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds.  Here,  too,  the 
church  lends  a  hand,  for  though  on  principle,  it  can 
not  openly  favor  Mammon,  in  actual  fact  and  more 
or  less  covertly,  it  never  relaxes  its  own  hunt  for 
the  dollar.  For  money  is  the  god  of  this  world,  and 
if  the  churches  do  not  preach  this  in  the  name  of 
Christ,  yet  most  of  them  acknowledge  it  by  their 
practice. 

But  the  unhappy  rich? — I  have  never  known  any 
(outside  of  the  copy-books)  and  I  doubt  if  there  be 
many  such.  I  wish  to  make  this  point  plain:  The 
rich  persons  whom  it  is  my  privilege  to  know,  or  to 
have  heard  of  in  familiar  report,  are  constantly  and 


300  ADVENTURES    IN 

uniformly  happy  in  the  mere  contemplation  of  their 
money — most  happy  in  not  spending  it,  in  following 
its  accumulation  with  a  loving  care,  in  defending  it 
against  the  appeals  of  charity,  the  petitions  of  hu 
man  distress,  the  cries  of  struggling  merit,  the  im 
portunity  of  ill-chosen,  i.e.,  needy  friends.  Of 
course,  there  are  the  better  rich — and  a  few  of  these 
also  I  know — who  find  their  chief  happiness  in  doing 
good  with  the  means  which  fortune  has  placed  at 
their  command — may  their  riches  be  an  unfailing 
horn  of  plenty!  But  these  are  the  exceptions  and 
their  goodness  stands  only  for  so  much  light  in  the 
picture — it  can  not  redeem  a  whole  class  from  re 
proach.  I  solemnly  believe  that  the  greatest  unhap- 
piness  known  to  the  rich,  outside  the  common  ills  of 
humanity,  is  when  they  are  coerced  into  giving  up 
their  money  against  their  will — which,  in  the  usual 
course  of  things,  happens  very  seldom.  The  spec 
tacle  of  the  rich  man,  sleepless  and  sorrowing  amid 
all  that  his  wealth  can  purchase  in  the  way  of  luxury 
and  comfort  and  delight,  is  one  of  the  oldest  and 
most  popular  fables  in  the  world.  But  though  it 
has  surely  prevented  many  a  riot  and  killed  off  many 
a  revolutionist  in  the  germ,  I  am  bound  in  the  inter 
est  of  truth  to  denounce  it  as  a  fake,  a  swindle  and 
a  fraud!  Let  no  man  be  afraid  to  get  a  little  money 
together,  lest  he  lose  his  good  spirits.  If  his  health 
is  just  middling  now,  I  have  no  fear  that  he  will  be 
gin  to  peak  and  pine  as  soon  as  he  shall  have  gotten 
something  at  the  Safe  Deposit. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  301 


THE  PEOPLE 

Oh,  that  I  could  speak  catapults!  Oh,  that  I  could 
shoot  falarica  out  of  my  heart! — Heine. 

I  HAVE  at  different  times  about  made  up  my 
mind  to  hate  Nietzsche,  for  his  attitude  toward 
the  people,  but  now  I  am  beset  with  the  hor 
rible  fear  that  I  shall  end  by  agreeing  with  him. 

The  people — that  blind,  brutal,  stupid,  cowardly, 
inert,  slavish,  ungrateful,  many-headed  Thing,  to 
which  the  noblest  spirits  that  have  ever  worn  flesh 
have  vainly  sacrificed  themselves. 

The  people — that  generous  enthusiasm  of  youth 
and  killing  disillusion  of  age.  That  maker  of  mar 
tyrdoms  without  recompense.  That  support  of 
every  tyranny  and  very  superstition.  That  cruel 
hater  of  its  friends.  That  fond  lover  of  its  foes. 
That  dog  which  ever  returns  to  its  vomit.  That 
offal!  That  carrion! 

Look  back  over  the  ages  past  and  see  how  the  best 
and  bravest  blood  of  earth  has  ever  been  shed  for 
this  insensate  monster — and  shed  in  vain. 

Agis  of  Sparta,  Socrates  of  Athens,  Jesus  of  Jeru 
salem,  Gracchi  of  Rome,  Tyler  of  England — you 


302  ADVENTURES   IN 

and  all  the  nameless  uncounted  heroes  whose  sym 
bols  you  are,  tell  us  what  you  purchased  with  your 
blood  and  tears! 

Oh,  yes!  I  know — to  have  your  story  told  as  an 
idle  tale  to  the  people — the  same  people  who  took 
from  you  without  gratitude,  deserted  you  without 
shame,  denied  you  without  remorse,  crowded  to  see 
you  suffer  or  die  with  a  stupid  wonder,  and  very 
soon  thereafter  forgot  all  about  you. 

Unquestionably  Nietzsche  was  mad  on  some 
points,  but  as  to  the  people  and  the  place  they  should 
fill  in  his  scheme  of  a  perfected  civilization  with  a 
superman  at  the  top,  I  am  more  and  more  convinced 
that,  like  Hamlet,  he  knew  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw. 

I  mean,  of  course,  in  my  present  mood. 

For  what  is  the  people  doing  now  everywhere  in 
the  world  but  the  things  it  has  always  done? — prop 
ping  up  tyrannies,  killing  and  imprisoning  its  friends, 
offering  its  back  to  the  heaviest  burden  of  the  mas 
ter,  or  bellying  in  the  dirt  before  the  idols  created 
by  its  own  ignorance  and  fear;  ever  betraying  the 
hopes  of  those  who  would  and  do  die  to  serve  it; 
fearing  and  thrusting  back  the  liberty  which  it  has 
power  to  take ;  drinking  itself  drunk  with  the  blood 
that  was  poured  for  its  redemption. 

But  I  am  not  always  of  this  mood,  and,  perhaps, 
I  never  fully  yield  to  it  save  when  the  holy  and  un 
quenchable  light  of  Revolution  seems  to  die  out  in 
the  nighted  baseness  of  humanity.  Oftener,  indeed, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  303 

I  am  of  the  old  glowing  faith  that  inspired  my  bos 
om  at  twenty,  when  I  longed  to  die  for  the  people, 
that  my  name  might  be  written  with  the  martyrs  of 
the  race.  At  such  times  I  am  wonderfully  patient 
with  the  people  and  wish,  with  Heine,  that  I  could 
speak  catapultae,  that  I  could  shoot  falaricae  out  of 
my  heart  at  their  enemies. 

Yes :  I  will  confess  the  truth — though  they  should 
slay  me  like  so  many  who  have  loved  their  cause  too 
well,  still  would  I  cry  out  with  my  latest  breath — 
"Long  live  the  people!" 


304  ADVENTURES    IN 


CELLINI 

THE  life  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  is  rightly  one 
of  the  world's  favored  books.     It  has  ever 
more  readers  in  each  new  age.     It  draws 
upon  the  many  who  merely  like  a  roystering  tale  and 
upon  the  wiser  few  who  are  concerned  with  human 
nature  and  the  ironies  of  history.    It  has,  of  a  truth, 
incomparable  interest  as  one  of  the  addenda  or  ana 
of  formal  history;  but  its  chief  and  abiding  charm 
lies  in  this — it  is  Messer  Benvenuto  Cellini  himself, 
to  the  very  life  of  life! 

Milton  has  nobly  defined  a  good  book  as  "the 
precious  life  blood  of  a  master  spirit,  embalmed  and 
treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life."  One 
would  scruple  to  apply  this  description  to  Cellini's 
book,  marvellous  as  it  is  in  many  ways.  But  that 
it  is  destined  to  such  immortality  as  books  may 
know,  seems  evident  from  its  vigor  and  freshness, 
after  a  race  of  three  hundred  years.  Few,  indeed, 
are  the  English  books  which  have  run  so  long  and 
find  themselves  in  as  good  condition. 

The  fact  signifies  that  there  is  nothing  like  life 
to  beget  life — a  truth  that  critics  sometimes  ignore. 
Cellini  was  disreputable  in  several  capital  respects 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  305 

of  character,  contemptible  in  not  a  few,  and  strictly 
admirable  in  none.  But  he  was  alive,  all  alive,  thrill 
ing  and  tingling  with  conscious  vitality,  with  such 
heat  of  the  blood  as  sometimes  prompted  him  to 
homicide  and,  less  abnormally,  to  create  works  of 
art. 

That  devil  which  is  Italy  was  never  more  accur 
ately  incarnated  than  in  our  Benvenuto.  His  prone- 
ness  to  usee  red"  upon  the  least  occasion  of  quar 
rel;  his  terrible  tongue  that  he  used  even  more  read 
ily  than  his  dagger;  his  quick  and  facile  remorse,  also 
affording  him  satisfaction  like  his  fits  of  fury;  his 
piety  that  was  not  in  the  least  put  to  blush  by  his 
crimes;  his  persuasion  that  God  directly  upheld  and 
protected  him;  his  vanity  both  as  man  and  artist, 
which  is  like  a  sore  that  he  is  constantly  dressing  and 
tending  and  bespeaking  our  notice  of;  his  blended 
cruelty  and  kindness  to  those  near  him,  men,  women 
and  children  alike;  his  love  of  ^display  and  prodi 
gality  alongside  his  shrewd  talent  for  business  and 
the  grasping  disposition  he  too  often  betrays,  dis 
guise  it  as  he  may;  his  fanfaronade  so  thinly  war 
ranted  and  his  vulgar  sensualism  without  the  least 
grace  of  sentiment — all  these  qualities  and  much 
beside  stamp  him  as  a  genuine  product  of  his  "good 
Tuscan  land." 

To  exhibit  these  various  qualities  just  as  they  were 
in  nature,  with  incidents  calculated  to  relieve  and 
set  them  off  in  their  proper  contrast  and  at  their  full 


306  ADVENTURES    IN 

Hvalue,  was  nothing  less  than  a  miracle  of  art.  In 
this  case,  as  so  often,  the  builder  builded  better  than 
he  knew.  Cellini  never  suspected  the  success  his 
book  was  destined  to  have,  else  even  he  might  have 
shrunk  from  the  daring  with  which  he  set  forth  his 
titles  both  to  glory  and  shame. 

I  want  to  show  the  vitality  of  Cellini's  style — a 
vitality  that  has  never  been  surpassed.  Here  is  a 
paragraph  describing  one  of  his  earliest  scrimmages 
(he  was  only  about  seventeen)  that  sets  the  fiery 
Florentine  before  us  in  a  triumph  of  exact  realism. 

"At  this  I  was  furious,  and  in  my  rage  I  swelled 
like  an  asp,  and  resolved  on  a  desperate  thing. 
Then  I  picked  up  a  stiletto  and  rushed 
to  my  enemies'  house,  which  was  above  their  shop. 
I  found  them  at  table;  and  young  Gherardo,  who 
had  been  the  beginning  of  the  quarrel,  threw  him 
self  upon  me  at  my  entrance.  Thereupon  I  stabbed 
him  in  the  breast,  right  through  his  doublet  and 
vest  to  his  shirt,  but  did  not  touch  his  flesh,  nor  do 
him  any  injury  whatsoever.  Only  I  thought  I  had 
wounded  him  sorely;  and,  as  he  fell  from  sheer  ter 
ror  to  the  ground,  I  shouted,  'O,  traitors,  this  is 
the  day  appointed  unto  me  to  murder  you  all!"  The 
father,  mother  and  sisters,  thinking  it  was  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  threw  themselves  at  once  on  their 
knees,  calling  for  mercy  with  all  their  lungs.  See 
ing  they  made  no  resistance,  and  looking  at  the 
man  stretched  out  on  the  floor  like  a  corpse,  I  felt 
it  would  be  too  vile  a  thing  to  lay  hands  on  them. 
But,  still  furious,  I  rushed  to  the  stairs  and,  having 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  307 

reached  the  street,!  found  all  the  rest  of  the  house 
hold  assembled  there,  more  than  a  dozen  in  all. 
One  had  an  iron  shovel,  another  carried  a  big  iron 
pipe,  others  hammers,  anvils  and  sticks.  But  as 
God  in  His  mercy  sometimes  intervenes  (sic)  it  so 
pleased  Him  that  they  did  not  do  me,  nor  did  I  do 
them,  the  least  harm  in  the  world." 

His  quarrel  with  Luigi  Pulci  ("son  of  the  Pulci 
beheaded  for  incest  with  his  daughter")  is  of  a  like 
temper,  Benvenuto  being  now  in  his  early  twenties. 
The  trouble  arose  over  "the  lady  Pantasilea  who 
bore  me  that  false  and  burdensome  love";  but  yet 
Benvenuto  disliked  that  Luigi  should  partake  of  her 
favors.  This  he  told  him  in  a  manner  that  makes 
one  think  of  the  fire  and  cunning  of  lago — and  in 
truth  Cellini  often  reminds  one  of  that  honest  per 
son,  showing  how  well  Shakespeare  knew  his  Italian. 
Here  was  the  way  of  it. 

"As  soon  as  the  brazen-faced  whore  (just  a  page 
before  she  had  been  'the  lady  PantasileaM)  set 
eyes  on  the  fine  youth,  she  had  her  designs  on  him. 
Seeing  this,  as  soon  as  our  supper  was  over,  I  called 
Luigi  aside  and  told  him  that  for  the  sake  of  the 
kindness  he  owned  I  had  done  him,  he  must  never 
seek  the  company  of  that  prostitute.  His  reply  was, 
'Alas,  my  friend  Benvenuto,  do  you  take  me,  then, 
for  a  madman?1  .  .  .  'Not  for  a  madman  but  for 
a  young  man/  I  answered;  'and  I  swear  to  you  I 
have  no  thought  of  her  at  all,  but  I  should  be  very 
sorry  if  through  her  you  broke  your  neck.'  Where 
upon  he  swore  and  called  to  God  to  witness  that 


308  ADVENTURES    IN 

if  ever  he  spoke  to  her,  he  might  break  his  neck 
upon  the  spot." 

What  Benvenuto  feared  came  about  very  soon 
and  is  told  as  follows: 

"Now  it  happened  that  one  Sunday  evening  we 
were  invited  to  supper  with  Michael  Angelo,  the 
Sienese  sculptor;  and  it  was  summertime. 
But  just  in  the  middle  of  supper  she  (Pantasilea) 
got  up,  saying  she  wished  to  retire,  for  she  was  in 
pain,  but  that  she  would  soon  return.  In  the  mean 
while  we  went  on  pleasantly  talking  and  supping, 
and  she  stopped  away  a  long  time.  Now  it  hap 
pened  that,  being  on  the  alert,  I  heard  something 
like  muffled  laughter  in  the  street.  I  had  the  knife 
in  my  hand  which  I  had  been  using  at  table.  The 
window  was  so  near  that  by  stretching  a  little  I 
could  see  Luigi  Pulci  outside  with  Pantasilea, 
I  heard  Luigi  saying,  'Oh,  if  that  devil  of  a 
Benvenuto  could  only  see,  it  would  be  the  worse 
for  us.*  And  she  answered,  'No  fear.  Listen  to 
the  noise  they  are  making.'  ...  At  this 
point  I  threw  myself  down  from  the  window  and 
seized  Luigi  by  the  cloak.  With  the  knife  in  my 
hand  I  had  certainly  slain  him  had  he  not  spurred 
the  white  horse  he  was  riding  and  left  his  cloak  in 
my  hands,  to  escape  with  his  life.  Pantasilea  ran 
for  refuge  to  a  neighboring  church." 

That  same  night  the  thoughtful  Benvenuto  way 
laid  and  wounded  them  both  with  a  sword.  Luigi 
having  been  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  not  long 
afterward,  Cellini  recalls  the  vow  he  had  sworn  to 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  309 

refrain  from  Pantasilea,  and  piously  concludes : 
"Thus  it  is  seen  that  God  keeps  count  of  the  good 
and  the  bad  and  to  each  man  gives  his  deserts." 

Cecchino,  a  younger  brother  of  our  Benvenuto, 
had  been  wounded  to  death  by  a  guardsman  after 
he  had  himself  killed  one  of  the  latter' s  comrades. 
The  guardsman  had  plainly  acted  in  self-defence, 
and  the  quarrel  was  one  which  the  fiery  Cecchino 
had  brought  on  himself.  Nevertheless,  the  filial 
Benvenuto  pined  to  avenge  his  brother  and  became 
so  gloomy  from  brooding  over  this  thought  of  blood 
that  Pope  Clement  (for  whom  he  was  doing  some 
artistic  work  at  the  time  and  who  perhaps  feared 
that  it  might  suffer)  rebuked  him,  saying:  "Oh, 
Benvenuto,  I  did  not  know  you  were  demented. 
Haven't  you  learnt  before  now  that  for  death  there 
is  no  remedy?  You  are  doing  your  best  to  follow 
your  brother." 

How  Cellini  cured  himself  of  this  indisposition 
and  "got  his  man"  (as  we  are  now  saying)  is  thus 
told — and  I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  more  dra 
matically  effective  in  the  pages  of  Dumas.  "Better 
to  me  than  courting  a  sweetheart,"  he  says  with  sav 
age  joy,  "was  watching  that  arquebusier  who  had 
killed  my  brother."  But  one  evening  he  resolved 
once  and  for  all  to  be  done  with  the  trouble.  I  here 
gladly  give  him  the  word. 

"The  man  lived  near  a  place  called  Torre  San- 
guigna,  next  door  to  a  house  where  lodged  one  of 


310  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  most  famous  courtesans  of  Rome,  called  Signora 
Antea.  The  clock  had  just  struck  twenty-four.  The 
arquebusier  stood  in  the  doorway  after  supper, 
sword  in  hand.  I  crept  up  stealthily  and  with  a 
Pistojan  dagger  dealt  him  a  back  stroke,  thinking 
to  cut  his  head  right  off.  But  he  wheeled  round 
suddenly  and  the  blow  fell  on  the  top  of  his  right 
shoulder,  cleaving  the  bone.  Up  he  sprang  and, 
dazed  by  the  sore  pain,  he  began  to  run.  I  fol 
lowed  after  and  came  up  with  him  in  a  step  or  two. 
Then,  raising  my  dagger  above  his  bent  head,  I 
struck  him  on  the  nape  of  the  neck  and  the  weapon 
went  in  so  deep  that  I  could  not  for  all  my  efforts 
draw  it  out." 

After  this  pleasant  little  affair  Benvenuto  took 
refuge  in  the  palace  of  Duke  Alessandro  de'  Medici 
(who  would  naturally  protect  so  worthy  a  man  and 
a  Florentine  to  boot),  and  was  told  to  go  on  with 
the  Pope's  work,  since  he  was  so  anxious  to  have  it; 
but  that  for  eight  days  he  had  better  keep  within 
doors.  His  Holiness  Clement  the  Seventh  (who 
was  also  a  Medici,  by  the  left  hand,  and  therefore  a 
Florentine)  "glowered"  when  Benvenuto  again  pre 
sented  himself.  "But  when  he  examined  my  work, 
his  face  softened;  he  heaped  praises  on  me  and  said 
I  had  done  a  very  great  deal  in  very  little  time.  Then 
looking  me  straight  in  the  face,  he  added:  'Now 
that  you  have  recovered,  Benvenuto,  give  heed  to 
your  way  of  life.'  And  I,  catching  his  meaning, 
said  I  would  do  so." 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  311 

A  later  and  more  daring  piece  of  homicide  (which 
was  to  have  more  serious  consequences  for  our  spir 
ited  friend),  was  the  killing  of  Messer  Pompeo,  a 
Milanese  and  a  sort  of  trade  rival  of  Cellini.  Be 
lieving  his  own  life  to  be  threatened,  the  latter  with 
admirable  forehandedness  attacked  Pompeo  in  the 
midst  of  a  band  of  friends.  "But  with  a  little  keen- 
edged  dagger'*  (he  was  perhaps  laudably  partial 
to  the  national  weapon) — "I  forced  their  ranks  and 
had  my  hands  upon  his  breast  so  quickly  and  with 
such  coolness  that  not  one  of  them  could  hinder 
me.  I  was  aiming  at  his  face,  but  in  his  terror  he 
turned  his  head,  so  that  I  plunged  the  poniard  in 
just  below  the  ear.  It  only  needed  two  strokes,  for 
at  the  second  he  fell  dead,  which  had  not  been  at  all 
my  intention.  But  as  the  saying  is,  'There's  no  bar 
gaining  about  blows.' ' 

Now  although  the  great  Cardinals  Cornaro  and 
de'  Medici  vjed  warmly  in  protecting  him  and  the 
Pope  then  reigning,  Paul  the  Third,  observed  (ac 
cording  to  Benvenuto)  that  men  like  him,  unique  in 
their  profession,  were  above  the  law,  yet  this  mat 
ter  laid  the  train  of  a  long  series  of  misfortunes  for 
our  pleasant  hero.  This  same  Pope  Paul  became  his 
implacable  enemy,  egged  on,  Cellini  avers,  by  his 
(the  Pope's)  bastard  son,  Signor  Pier  Luigi  Far- 
nese.  In  those  days  it  seems  the  Popes  had  their 
misfortunes  as  well  as  other  people,  and  among 
these  were  not  infrequently  offspring  by  the  left 


312'  ADVENTURES    IN 

hand.  This  bastard  Luigi  was  a  bad  enough  egg, 
as  his  life  and  violent  death  proved,  but  it  is  not 
necessary  to  believe  all  that  the  excellent  "Ben- 
venuto  my  friend"  alleges  to  his  prejudice.  Nor  do 
I  purpose  to  follow  the  story  further,  seeing  that  I 
would  but  spoil  it  for  the  presumably  whetted 
reader. 

I  cannot,  however,  bring  this  article  to  a  close 
without  citing  a  few  terse  examples  of  the  speech  of 
Cellini — as  vital  and  colored  and  pregnant  with  pur 
pose,  I  venture  to  hold,  as  the  best  lines  in  Shakes 
peare. 

"He  had  given  the  job  (to  murder  Cellini)  into 
the  hand  of  one  of  his  men,  a  little  devil  of  a  Corsi- 
can  soldier,  who  said  he  would  do  the  thing  as  easily 
as  he  would  suck  a  new-laid  egg."  .  .  . 

"Now  let  the  world  and  every  living  man  therein 
bear  witness  how  evil  stars  and  adverse  fortunes 
work  against  us  mortals!"  (Is  this  not  the  very  ac 
cent  of  lago's  "Take  note,  take  note,  oh  world"?) 

He  believed  that  he  saw  a  vision  of  the  Godhead 
while  in  prison  by  the  Pope's  orders — O  Saint  Ben- 
venuto ! — and  thus  he  describes  a  species  of  visible 
halo  that  remained  to  him  for  long  afterward: 

"From  the  time  when  I  saw  the  great  vision  until 
now,  there  has  remained  a  splendor — oh  wondrous 
thing! — about  my  head;  this  plain  to  all  to  whom 
I  have  thought  well  to  point  it  out — but  these  are 
very  few.  It  is  visible  just  above  my  shadow  in 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  313 

the  morning  at  sunrise,  and  for  two  hours  after,  and 
still  clearer  when  there  is  dew  upon  the  grass.  In 
the  evening,  too,  at  sunset,  it  can  be  seen."  .  .  . 

Saint  Benvenuto  thus  tells  of  an  unworthy  revenge 
he  took  upon  a  compatriot  by  forcing  him  to  marry 
a  French  girl  who  had  been  model  and  mistress  to 
him  (Cellini)  during  his  sojourn  in  France: 

"I  own  I  made  a  mistake  in  revenging  myself  so 
violently  upon  Pagolo  Micceri.  For  it  was  not 
enough  for  me  that  I  made  him  take  to  wife  this 
wicked  hussy.  Over  and  above  that,  I  made  her 
pose  to  me  as  model,  naked,  for  thirty  soldi  a  day. 
I  paid  her  in  advance  and  fed  her  well;  but  I  used 
her  for  my  pleasure  out  of  revenge,  and  then  cast 
this  insult  in  her  husband's  teeth  and  her  own." 

Of  another  model,  ua  poor  young  girl  about  fif 
teen,"  he  says:  "She  was  lovely  in  shape  and  some 
thing  of  a  brunette;  and  as  she  was  a  wild  little 
thing,  with  hardly  a  word  to  say  for  herself,  swift  in 
her  movements  and  sullen-eyed,  I  called  her  Scor- 
zone;  but  her  own  name  was  Jeanne.  .  .  .  The 
young  thing  was  pure  and  virginal  and  I  got  her 
with  Mid!' 

All  this  time  he  was  wearing  his  halo — he  tells 
us  indeed  that  it  could  be  seen  to  better  advantage 
in  France.  Chaste  and  admirable  Benvenuto ! 

A  coveted  block  of  marble  having  been  given  to 
Bandinello,  a  bad  sculptor,  through  the  influence  of 
the  Duchess,  wife  to  de'  Medici,  Duke  of  Florence, 


3i4  ADVENTURES    IN 

Cellini  says:  "I  felt  no  jealousy  of  the  Cavaliere 
Bandinello,  but  pity  seized  me  for  that  unlucky  block 
of  marble!" 

He  describes  Messer  Lattanzio  Gorini  (paymas 
ter  to  Duke  Cosimo  and  therefore  Benvenuto's  nat 
ural  enemy)  as  ua  dried  up  scarecrow  of  a  man, 
with  spidery  hands,  and  a  tiny  voice  that  hummed 
like  a  gnat,  who  crept  about  like  a  snail." 

To  the  same  Duke's  major-domo  he  declared  with 
habitual  temper  but  rare  dignity,  that  his  (Benve 
nuto's)  peers  were  worthy  to  speak  with  Popes  and 
Emperors  and  great  Kings;  and  that  there  were  per 
haps  not  two  of  us  in  the  world,  while  a  dozen  of 
his  sort  could  be  met  going  out  or  in  at  any  door. 

The  Duke  having  praised  Cellini  in  the  hearing  of 
this  major-domo,  "he  was  always  on  the  lookout  how 
he  could  lay  a  trap  to  break  my  neck." 

When,  against  the  expectation  of  Duke  Cosimo 
and  the  hope  of  Cellini's  enemies,  he  succeeded  in 
casting  the  Perseus,  his  most  celebrated  work,  pitch 
ing  in  all  the  pewter  he  could  find  when  the  bronze 
had  given  out,  we  get  this  rare  glimpse  of  him: 
"Then  they  (his  helpers)  saw  my  bronze  was  really 
melted  and  filling  up  my  mould,  and  they  gave  me 
the  readiest  and  most  cheerful  help  and  obedience. 
Now  I  was  here,  now  I  was  there,  giving  orders,  or 
putting  my  own  hand  to  the  work, 'while  I  cried,  'Oh 
God,  who  in  Thy  limitless  strength  didst  rise  from 
the  dead,  and  glorious  didst  ascend  to  Heaven' 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  315 

.  .  .  In  an  instant  my  mould  was  filled  up ;  and 
I  knelt  down  and  thanked  God  with  all  my  heart." 
Cosimo  having  demurred  at  paying  ten  thousand 
ducats  for  this  statue,  saying  he  could  have  cities  and 
palaces  built  with  ten  thousands  of  ducats,  Cellini 
rejoined  that  he  could  find  any  number  of  men  cap 
able  of  building  cities  and  palaces,  but  maybe  not 
one  man  in  all  the  world  who  could  make  another 
Perseus. 

We  cannot  leave  the  excellent  Benvenuto  Cellini 
at  a  more  fitting  or  happier  point  than  this,  where 
he  has  completed  his  imperishable  masterpiece  and 
is  at  reasonable  peace  with  all  the  world.  He  had 
indeed,  just  previous  to  the  casting  of  the  Perseus, 
met  with  his  enemy  and  rival  Bandinello  in  a  deso 
late  region  near  Florence,  and  first  thought  to  "yerk 
him  here  under  the  ribs,"  like  lago  on  a  somewhat 
like  occasion.  Bandinello,  in  truth,  expected  no  less 
and  became  pale  as  death,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot.  His  fear  was  vain:  the  admirable  Ben- 
venuto's  spirit  had  declined,  and  he  contented  him 
self  with  thanking  God  who  by  His  own  strength 
had  kept  him  from  such  a  deed  of  violence ! 

It  will  be  no  violence  to  the  discreet  reader  to 
urge  that  he  make  the  better  and  more  deliberate 
acquaintance  of  Messer  Benvenuto  Cellini. 


316  ADVENTURES    IN 

THE  SABINE  FARM 

Non  omnis  moriar. 

[Rome,  Sept.  24th,  igio. — Prof.  Pasqul  has  com 
pleted  his  explorations  of  the  supposed  site  of  Hor 
ace's  Sabine  farm.  He  discovered  traces  of  mosaics 
and  the  remains  of  walls.  The  area  of  the  land  is 
two  acres.  It  has  been  practically  identified  as  the 
site  of  the  poet's  farm. — Cable  despatch. 

SO,  Horace,  they  have  found  the  spot, 
Your  hoc  erat  in  votis, 
Where,  by  the  Muses  unforgot, 
You  shunned  proud  Roma's  notice; 
Content  to  work  your  vein  benign, 

To  have  enough  and  spare  it, 
A  crust  of  bread,  a  cup  of  wine, 
And  Cynara  to  share  it. 

Here,  with  your  vines  and  bleating  flock 

By  friendly  Faunus  tended, 
Your  Sabine  aging  in  the  crock, 

Your  days  from  ill  defended, — 
What  happy  care  to  weave  the  line 

That  ever  fresh  delights  us, 
Long  after  Rome  has  ceased  to  shine 

And  History  affrights  us! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  317 

Here  oft  you  sought  with  genial  care 

To  mix  your  toil  with  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  faithful  or  the  fair 

To  tread  life's  gayer  measure. 
O  nights  for  friendship  or  for  song 

Or  graceful  follies  chosen! — 
With  Varus  none  could  be  too  long, 

With  Barine  none  frozen! 

Here  Venus  came,  her  black-eyed  boy, 

And  Mercury,  oft  bidden, 
With  smiling  Youth  and  careless  Joy, 

To  make  a  feast  unchidden. 
And  graver  gods  looked  jocund  on, 

Nor  recked  lest  mortals  see  'em — 
Alack  for  those  fair  revels  gone, 

Noctes  coenaque  deum! 

So  when  the  blushing  Autumn  fell 

And  all  the  hills  were  golden, 
And  Bacchus  walked  the  happy  dell, 

By  your  clear  eyes  beholden, — 
Euvoef — what  joy  your  bosom  smote 

To  mark  the  smiling  plenty! — 
'Twas  then  you  sent  that  little  note 

And  Tyndar  came  not  lente. 

Thrice  happy  bard !  who  chose  of  lite 
And  love  the  portion  better, 


318  ADVENTURES    IN 

Who  shunned  the  frowning  rock  of  strife, 
Nor  long  wore  passion's  fetter. 

Though  Chloe  might  assume  the  prude, 
And  Lydia  might  tease  you, 

Phyllis  was  neither  coy  nor  rude, 
And  Glycera  could  please  you. 


Horace !  forgive  this  idle  strain 

From  one  who  long  hath  owned  thee 
Chief  minstrel  of  the  lyric  vein, 

And  his  best  hours  hath  loaned  thee. 
What  armor  for  the  breast  like  thine, 

When  cares  crowd  fast  and  faster! 
What  roses  in  thy  festive  line 

When  Joy  again  is  master! 

And  this  I  know — the  far  world  o'er 

One  pulse  of  love  is  fleeting, 
And  men  look  to  Italia's  shore, 

The  pleasant  tale  repeating: — 
His  little  house! — his  Sabine  farm! — 

The  hillside  and  the  river! — 
There  beat  his  kindly  heart  and  warm: 

There  died — to  live  forever! 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  319 


AT  POE'S  COTTAGE 

MY  mind  was  possessed  with  the  mournful 
image  of  the  Poet,  the  romance  and  trag 
edy  of  his  life.  This  was  the  very  air  he 
breathed.  Here  were  the  scenes  amid  which  he 
passed  his  last  years  with  her,  the  Child-Wife, 
whose  memory  still  mingles  with  his  like  a  conse 
cration.  All  that  sad  story  of  the  rare  genius  fet 
tered  by  poverty  which  eats  out  the  soul — chained, 
too,  in  the  deadlier  bonds  of  evil  habit — came  upon 
me  with  the  poignant  force  that  the  association  of 
locality  alone  can  give. 

It  had  rained  intermittently  all  week,  ending  at 
last  in  a  furious  night  of  storm — such  a  night,  I 
could  not  but  think,  in  which  his  unquiet  spirit  would 
have  rejoiced  to  walk  abroad.  The  morning  rose, 
calm,  refreshed  and  beautiful,  with  the  added  peace 
of  the  Sabbath.  I  was  early  on  the  Kingsbridge 
road,  and — without  ever  having  seen  the  place,  or 
even  a  picture  of  it,  without  any  direction,  verbal  or 
otherwise — something  led  me  straight  to  the  humble 
little  cottage  which  had  been  the  home  of  Poe. 

Homely  and  poor  indeed  it  is;  but,  thrilled  as  I 
was  by  the  first  glimpse  of  it,  penetrated  by  a  sudden 


320  ADVENTURES    IN 

realized  sense  of  that  immortal  failure,  the  low 
small  house  speaking  silently  of  the 

"Master 

Whom  unmerciful  disaster  followed  fast  and  fol 
lowed  faster" 

took  in  my  eyes  the  dignity  and  pathos  of  a  shrine. 
How  much  more  potent,  after  all,  is  a  living  mem 
ory  than  a  mere  literary  reminiscence!  Elsewhere 
one  might  think  of  Poe  in  the  conventional  manner: 
of  his  undoubted  genius,  yet  unequal  literary  pro 
duct;  of  his  fickleness,  his  egotism,  his  constant  re 
course  to  friends  in  time  of  need  and  repudiation  of 
them  with  the  first  ray  of  returning  prosperity;  of 
the  legacy  of  many  devils  he  had  inherited,  bringing 
to  naught  all  his  nobler  resolves  and  ambitions; 
lastly,  of  that  fatal  curse  of  drink  and  drugs  which 
dogged  him  from  defeat  to  defeat  until  it  wrought 
out  his  untimely  death.  All  of  which  is  true  as 
truth — for  have  not  many  sage  moralists  told  us 
so,  and  doth  it  not  delight  the  whole  Tribe  of  Dul- 
ness  to  be  able  to  point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  the 
faults  and  the  failures  of  Genius?  .  .  . 

But  look  you,  friend,  here  is  not  a  place  for 
harsh  judgments,  however  condign  they  may  be, 
upon  the  Man  and  Brother  whom  this  humble  roof 
once  sheltered.  Through  this  narrow  gateway  on 
which  I  lean,  how  often  he  passed,  bearing  his  earth- 
burden  of  toil  and  sorrow  and  deferred  hope  that 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  321 

maketh  the  heart  sick!  His  feet  have  worn  these 
stones  with  their  daily  imprint.  This  small  world 
was  his  to  whom  imagination  opened  realms  with 
out  bound.  This  poor  cot  afforded  lodgment  to  a 
head  that  could  have  beggared  the  dreams  of  Pros- 
pero.  Here  he  was  often  happy  with  the  wife  of 
his  youth,  who  came  to  him  a  child,  and  still  young 
and  lovely,  was  called  away.  Through  this  very 
gateway — not  changed  at  all — they  carried  her 
wasted  form.  One  feels  the  hush  upon  the  curious, 
pitying  throng  of  bystanders,  after  a  lapse  of  fifty 
years.  She  died  of  want,  it  is  said — I  am  glad  to 
believe  that  heart-hunger  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it.  ... 

The  little  house  stands  with  its  shoulder  to  the 
street  and  is  neighbored  by  some  rather  imposing 
villa  residences.  It  has  one  fairly  large  window 
looking  on  a  small  grass-plot  in  front,  and  two  tiny 
windows  which  light  the  low  sleeping-room  upstairs 
— for  there  is  an  "upstairs,"  although  the  cottage  is 
practically  of  only  one  story.  Over  the  large  win 
dow  is  an  effigy  of  a  raven,  which  looks  as  if  it 
might  have  been  dashed  off  by  a  handy  boy.  There 
is,  besides,  an  inscription  stating  that  the  house  was 
occupied  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe  from  1845  to  l$49> 
also,  that  it  is  now  the  property  of  E.  J.  Chauvet, 
D.  D.  S.,  Fordham,  N.  Y.  The  said  Chauvet,  D. 
D.  S.,  lives  next  door  in  one  of  the  imposing  resi 
dences  I  have  mentioned.  This  house  is  five  times 


322  ADVENTURES    IN 

larger  and  cost  many  times  more  money  than  Poe's; 
but  people  in  the  neighborhood  say  he  wants  a  good 
deal  more  money  than  that  before  he  will  yield  to 
the  City  of  New  York  his  title  in  the  Poe  cottage. 

After  a  brief  conversation  with  the  doctor,  I  de 
cided  he  was  not  the  man  to  furnish  off-hand  a  lum 
inous  estimate  of  the  Poet's  genius,  or  even  to  sup 
ply  a  bibliography  of  the  Poet's  works.  One  could 
not,  however,  praise  too  highly  his  zealous  desire 
that  the  city  should  take  the  cottage  off  his  hands — 
at  his  own  price — and  I  readily  fell  in  with  his  view 
touching  the  too  common  neglect  of  genius,  without 
being  entirely  blind  to  his  interested  application  of 
it.  It  is  a  world  of  irony  at  best — is  it  not,  my 
masters? — and  in  such  a  world  Chauvet,  D.  D.  S., 
with  his  fine  big  house  and  his  patronage  of  the  dead 
Poet,  with  his  poor  little  house,  holds  a  place  in 
strict  accord  with  the  eternal  unities.  The  humor 
of  this  observation  would  probably  be  lost  upon  the 
doctor — I  fear  it  impressed  me  so  strongly  as  to 
make  me  lose  a  great  part  of  his  valuable  conversa 
tion. 

Before  the  cottage  is  a  blasted  cherry  tree,  half  of 
which  has  been  cut  down,  leaving  a  blackened  trunk 
upon  which  the  penknives  of  relic-hunters  have 
wrought  additional  havoc.  It  stands  not  an  un 
worthy  symbol  of  the  man  whose  eyes  often  rested 
on  it  in  its  greenness  and  vigor.  Across  the  street 
a  pleasant  park,  named  after  the  Poet,  has  been 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  323 

set  out.  Thither  it  is  proposed  to  move  the  historic 
cottage  when  a  settlement  shall  have  been  made 
with  the  present  owner.  Knowing  the  mind  of 
Chauvet,  D.  D.  S.,  I  should  recommend  the  commit 
tee  having  the  negotiation  in  charge,  to  come  to 
terms  with  that  gentleman  as  soon  as  practicable. 
They  will  not  better  the  bargain  by  waiting. 

The  cottage  is  now  tenanted  by  an  Irish  lady 
named  Kenealy,  who  has  no  part  or  lot  in  its  tra 
ditions,  and  who  is  obviously  in  doubt  whether  the 
public  interest  in  her  domicile  is  to  be  ascribed  to 
a  proper  motive.  In  the  course  of  a  very  brief  con 
versation,  she  contrived  to  make  me  understand  that 
whatever  "goings  on"  might  have  taken  place  in 
the  house  when  "other  people"  lived  there,  nothing 
could  be  urged  in  reproach  of  her  tenancy!  As  I 
stood  musing  at  the  gate,  a  good-natured  country 
man  of  Mrs.  Kenealy's  joined  me,  and  at  once  volun 
teered  some  surprising  information  touching  the 
house  and  its  former  celebrated  tenant.  Lowering 
his  voice  cautiously  as  a  party  of  ladies  drew  near, 
"Do  ye  know,  sir,"  he  said,  "that  the  ould  boss  wrote 
'The  Raven'  sitting  at  the  little  windy  there  furninst 
ye — one  night  afther  a  dhrunk!"  And  he  added, 
with  true  Milesian  humor,  "Would  ye  wondher  at 
it?"  .  .  . 

Going  away  slowly  and  turning  more  than  once  to 
look  again — I  suspect  that  Chauvet,  D.D.S., 
thought  I  was  trying  to  get  a  better  view  of  his 


324  ADVENTURES    IN 

house — my  mind  dwelt  upon  the  strange  fortune  of 
Poe's  literary  fame.  The  chequered  history  of  let 
ters  affords  no  more  striking  contrast  than  the  pres 
ent  literary  estate  of  this  writer,  as  compared  with 
the  sordid  failure  of  his  life.  To  the  despised  lit 
erary  hack,  the  job-man  of  newspapers  and  maga 
zines,  who  was  never  able  to  command  a  decent  sub 
sistence  by  his  pen,  has  fallen  an  aftermath  of  repu 
tation  such  as  few  of  his  contemporaries  enjoy.  His 
works,  translated  into  a  more  sympathetic  language 
by  a  Frenchman  of  genius  whose  mind  seems  to 
have  been  a  replica  of  his  own,  have  yielded  him  a 
proud  and  enviable  fame  among  the  most  apprecia 
tive  and  artistic  people  in  the  world.  His  name 
abroad  is  illustrious  and  honored,  while  many  of  his 
contemporaries  who  outshone  him  at  home  have 
gained  no  foreign  suffrage. 

Nor  is  this  all.  Even  at  home,  in  the  land  where 
an  evil  destiny  cast  him  in  an  epoch  of  brutal  ma 
terialism,  his  fame  is  steadily  rising.  Whatever 
the  awards  of  a  factitious  "Hall  of  Immortals,"  in 
the  true  pantheon  of  American  letters  no  name  is 
writ  higher  than  his.  Fortunes  have  been  made  by 
the  publication  of  his  books,  edited  with  anxious 
scholarship,  issued  in  sumptuous  form — books  which 
never  yielded  their  author  a  living  and  might  not 
avail  to  keep  hunger  and  misery  from  the  Beloved 
of  his  heart.  The  humble  home  in  which  he  dwelt 
has  become  a  veritable  shrine  that  will  ere  long  be 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  325 

cared  for  by  the  State.  Each  succeeding  year  new 
biographies  of  him  are  put  forth,  new  and  ever- 
heightened  estimates  of  his  genius  are  made.  The 
artist  has  survived  the  man;  the  immortal  success 
the  temporary  failure.  And  the  world  is  making 
for  Edgar  Allan  Poe — as  for  so  many  other  chil 
dren  of  light  whose  fate  it  was  to  walk  in  dark 
ness — its  immemorial  atonement. 


EMEMBER  that  the  true  struggle  of  life 
is  not  to  achieve  what  the  world  calls  suc- 
cess,  but  to  hold  that  Essential  Self  inviolate 
which  was  given  you  to  mark  your  identity  from  all 
other  souls.  Against  this  precious  possession — this 
Veriest  You — all  winds  blow,  all  storms  rage,  all 
malign  powers  contend.  As  you  hold  to  this  or 
suffer  it  to  be  marred  or  taken  from  you,  so  shall 
be  your  victory  or  defeat. 


326 


LITERARY  AMENITES 

IT  has  been  said  (by  some  Italian,  I  think)  that 
hate  is  a  more  exquisite  passion  than  love.  The 
stories  of  Ugolino  and  Paolo  are  the  most  vivid 
things  we  take  out  of  Dante — we  never  forget  the 
pleasant  fable  of  the  man  eating  his  enemy's  head 
in  the  infernal  ice — and  they  are  clearly  those  which 
the  gloomy  poet  himself  most  enjoyed.  Psycholo 
gists  are  agreed  that  the  extremes  of  love  and  hate 
touch,  and  this  is  borne  out  by  the  experience  of 
many  in  the  matrimonial  state  and  of  some  persons 
famous  for  gallantry.  Certain  keen  judges  of  hu 
man  nature  like  Swift  and  La  Rochefoucault  go  so 
far  as  to  deny  that  a  man  may  love  another  as  him 
self  (love  between  men  is  actually  very  rare,  when 
you  think  of  it) ,  and  they  sneer  at  the  notion  of  uni 
versal  benevolence.  And  surely  we  hear  more  than 
we  see  of  the  latter  quality. 

It  seems  to  be  agreed  that  the  very  finest,  and,  so 
to  speak,  most  satisfactory  hatreds  are  those  which 
spring  from  sexual  jealousy  and  literary  envy.  Next 
to  these,  and  a  very  strong  second,  is  the  interesting 
species  of  hate  that  the  French  call  la  rancune  eccles- 
iastique  or  priestly  rancor,  which  gives  so  piquant  a 

327 


328  ADVENTURES    IN 

salt  to  many  pages  of  history.  My  present  concern 
is  with  the  antipathies  of  writing  people — rivals  and 
enemies  of  the  quill. 

Cut  the  hatreds  out  of  literature  and  the  residuum 
would  be  as  vapid  as  the  "Ladies1  Home  Journal" 
or  a  paper  by  Dr.  Samuel  Smiles.  The  fact  is — 
though  Prof.  Barrett  Wendell  does  not  so  teach  it 
from  his  chair  at  Harvard — that  literary  men  have 
in  all  ages  cherished  their  enmities  and  antipathies 
as  incentives  to  the  making  of  copy.  Not  to  go  back 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  they  fed  Voltaire's  long 
flickering  candle.  Pope's  life  was  one  long  ma 
lignity — the  force  of  malice  could  not  further  go 
than  in  the  terrible  lampoon  on  Hervey. 

Sporus,   that  thin  white  curd  of  ass's  milk. 

Addison  who  showed  his  step-son  "how  a  Chris 
tian  could  die,"  also  proved  during  his  life  how  a 
mild-mannered  man  could  hate,  in  the  case  of  Pope, 
who  civilly  returned  the  sentiment  (see  "Atticus," 
etc.).  "As  strong  a  beak,  as  fierce  a  talon  as  ever 
struck,  belonged  to  Swift" — and  the  writer  might 
have  added,  as  rare  a  genius  for  hatred  as  ever  was 
given  to  man.  But  much  as  he  hated  individuals, 
Swift  seems  to  have  hated  humanity  more,  and  died 
at  last,  old  and  mad,  of  a  species  of  lycanthropy. 

Old  Sam  Johnson  loved  an  honest  hater  and  said 
so,  dealing  about  lustily  with  that  stout  cudgel  of 
his.  The  letter  to  Chesterfield  breathing  a  just  hat 
red  for  the  tardy  and  presumptuous  Patron,  is  per- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  329 

haps  the  one  piece  of  Johnson's  writing  that  the 
world  will  not  willingly  let  die. 

The  foppish  malevolence  of  Walpole  grins 
through  all  his  works. 

Byron  was  a  splendid  hater,  and  he  himself  in 
spired  a  Satanical  aversion  in  the  bosom  of  the  gen 
tle  Southey,  author  of  "Thalaba"  and  other  forgot 
ten  epics.  In  the  "Vision  of  Judgment,"  Byron  paid 
his  compliments  to  the  said  Southey,  but  the  noble 
lord's  masterpiece  en  ce  genre  is  not  to  be  found  in 
his  Collected  Works.  I  allude  to  his  attack  on  the 
poet  Samuel  Rogers,  which  has  been  pronounced  the 
greatest  of  modern  satirical  portraits  in  verse,  and 
which  surely  is  not  to  be  surpassed  for  cool  ma 
lignity  and  happy  imagery  in  the  whole  compass  of 
English  literature.  Such  praise  may  awaken  a  de 
sire  in  my  readers  to  see  something  of  this  ex 
traordinary  piece  of  versified  hatred,  the  rather 
that  it  is  not  generally  known.  I  quote  a  few  lines. 

"Nose  and  chin  would  shame  a  knocker, 
Wrinkles  that  would  baffle  Cocker, 
Mouth  which  marks  the  envious  scorner, 
With  a  scorpion  in  each  corner; 
Turning  its  quick  tail  to  sting  you, 
In  the  place  that  most  may  wring  you; 
Eyes  of  lead-like  hue  and  gummy, 
Carcass  picked  out  from  some  mummy; 
Bowels,   (but  they  were  forgotten, 
Save  the  liver,  and  that's  rotten)  ; 


330  ADVENTURES    IN 

Skin  all  sallow,  flesh  all  sodden, 
Form  the  Devil  would  fright  God  in ! 


Vampire,  ghost  or  ghoul,  what  is  it? 
I  would  walk  ten  miles  to  miss  it. 


He's  the  cancer  of  his  species, 
And  will  eat  himself  to  pieces. 
Plague  personified  and  famine, 
Devil,  whose  sole  delight  is  damning ! 


This  charming  poem  was  written  on  the  occasion 
of  Roger's  visiting  Byron  in  Italy;  it  was  not  pub 
lished  during  the  author's  lifetime,  but  found  its 
way  into  print  before  the  subject  of  its  eulogy  had 
departed  this  vale  of  sorrows.  "I  would  give  a 
trifle,"  said  the  terrible  Maginn,  "to  have  seen  Sam's 
face  the  morning  that  satire  was  published." — Such 
were  the  amenities  of  literature  less  than  a  hundred 
years  ago. 

There  was,  by  the  way,  something  wounding  even 
in  Byron's  friendship.  He  loved  his  brother  poet 
Moore  and  yet  he  stung  him  with  an  immortal  epi 
gram — "Tommy  dearly  loves  a  lord." 

To  resume:  The  life  of  Heinrich  Heine,  another 
superb  hater,  was  nothing  but  war,  and  war  without 
quarter,  to  the  end.  The  victims  of  his  hatred,  of 
his  branding  scorn,  and  torturing  sarcasm,  might 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  331 

be  cited  by  the  score.  It  is  enough  to  notice  what 
he  did  to  poor  Ludwig  Borne,  after  the  latter's 
death. 

Lover  of  Heine  as  I  am,  I  grant  this  passage  is 
the  hardest  to  excuse  in  all  his  literary  warfare.  To 
say  no  word  whilst  the  enemy  could  defend  himself 
— to  hang  a  dead  man  in  chains — to  pour  forth  the 
vials  of  hatred,  and,  worse  yet,  affected  pity  on  a 
grave — we  should  turn  away  in  horror  from  Heine, 
were  this  all  that  we  knew  of  him.  Such  is,  how 
ever,  the  strange  privilege  of  genius  that  we  admire 
even  while  we  condemn  this  book  on  Borne.  For  it 
possesses  in  full  measure  the  qualities  which  make 
Heine  at  his  best  the  most  charming,  the  most  pro 
voking  and  the  most  interesting  of  writers — at  least, 
since  Voltaire.  Poor  Borne ! — honest  man  and  true 
patriot,  his  name  is  forever  embalmed  in  the  bitterly 
ironic  tribute  of  the  gifted  foe  whom  he  long  hailed 
as  a  brother  in  the  holy  cause  of  liberty.  But  it  is 
some  consolation  that  all  Heine's  wit  and  cleverness 
can  not  make  it  read  otherwise  than  as  a  Libel  and  a 
Treason! 

For  sheer  malice  and  cruelty  this  book  out-Heines 
Heine.  These  references,  for  example,  to  the 
woman  whom  Borne  loved  and  revered  to  his  last 
hour: 

"As  soon  as  Borne  had  shown  me  Madame  Wohl 
of  the  Wollgraben,  he  wished  me  to  see  the  other 
curiosities  of  Frankfort." 


332  ADVENTURES    IN 

"A  thin  person  whose  yellowish-white,  pock 
marked  face  resembled  an  old  pancake."  .  .  . 

"Concerning  Borne's  connection  with  the  lady  in 
question,  it  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  me 
whether  that  connection  was  warm  or  cold,  moist 
or  dry."  .  .  . 

"It  was  difficult  to  say  what  was  her  proper  title 
as  regards  her  connection  with  Borne — whether  she 
was  his  mistress  or  only  his  wife."  .  .  . 

Madame  Wohl's  marriage  to  another  at  length 
gave  the  lie  to  these  whispered  scandals.  She  and 
her  husband  came  to  Paris  and  took  up  their  resi 
dence  with  Borne.  Concerning  which  husband 
Heine  makes  this  delicate  innuendo:  "He  reminded 
one  of  that  species  of  ass  mentioned  in  the  Indian 
tales  of  Ktesias.  In  India  there  are  donkeys  with 
horns,  and  while  all  other  donkeys  have  no  horns 
at  all,  these  donkeys  with  horns  have  such  a  super 
fluity  that  it  gives  quite  a  bitter  taste  to  their  flesh." 

Heine's  humor  is  commonly  thought  to  set  him 
apart  from  the  Germans,  but  he  was  a  German  and 
nothing  more  when  he  wrote  this — 

"I  was  never  Borne*  s  friend,  and  I  was  also  never 
his  enemy" 

This  he  says  in  a  book  full  of  deadly  scorn  and 
calculated  disparagement ! 

"While  Borne  lived,"  he  continued,  "I  never 
wrote  a  line  against  him" — how  magnanimous  to 
wait  for  his  death!  "I  never  gave  him  a  thought, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  333 

I  completely  ignored  him,  and  that  galled  him  be 
yond  endurance" 

No  calculation  of  hatred  in  all  this,  of  course;  and 
so  he  could  justify  himself  for  not  attending  the 
funeral  and  fling  this  taunt  at  those  who  blamed  him : 

uThe  fools!  they  do  not  reflect  that  there  is  no 
pleasanter  duty  than  to  follow  your  enemy  to  the 
grave." 

This  book  on  Ludwig  Borne  is  one  that  might  be 
spared  were  it  not  so  subtly  biographical  and  spir 
itually  photographic  of  Heinrich  Heine. 

So  runs  this  chronicle  of  literary  grudges.  The 
relations  of  Dickens  and  Thackeray  were  a  kind  of 
armed  truce — each  hated  but  feared  the  other.  Car- 
lyle  hated  the  whole  world — except  when  he  needed 
the  money;  then  he  equivocated  in  the  Scotch  manner. 
He  also  hated  his  biographer  Froude,  who  returned 
the  compliment  with  a  vengeance  by  lifting  the  great 
man's  breech-clout,  thereby  adding  to  the  stern  de 
lights  of  literature.  Even  the  placid  Emerson  had 
a  feeling  closely  akin  to  hatred  for  the  unfortunate 
Poe  (whom  he  called  the  "Jingle  Man"),  and  the 
latter  was  so  busy  making  enemies  (and  hating 
them)  that  it  is  a  marvel  how  he  ever  found  time 
to  write  anything.  In  short,  the  history  of  literature, 
read  candidly,  is  very  much  more  of  an  Anvil  Chorus 
than  a  Grand  Sweet  Song  of  Harmony.  .  .  . 

To  these  notes  I  might  add  what  the  amiable 
Daudet  has  written  at  the  end  of  his  "Thirty  Years 


334  ADVENTURES    IN 

of  Paris,"  regarding  his  acquaintance  with  Tour 
gueneff.  Before  meeting  the  great  Russian  novelist 
the  Frenchman  had  read  him  deeply,  so  that,  as  he 
tells  us,  Tourgueneff  had  reigned  for  a  long  time 
on  an  ivory  throne  among  the  ranks  of  his  Deities. 
They  became  friends  and  met  often  at  a  little  cenacle 
including  Flaubert,  Zola  and  Edmond  de  Goncourt. 
Not  less  frequently  the  Russian  giant — as  he  was 
both  in  mind  and  bodily  stature — sought  Daudet  at 
his  home,  where  he  was  made  much  of  by  the  gra 
cious  Mrs.  Daudet  and  the  children.  Daudet  him 
self,  by  universal  testimony,  was  one  of  the  kindest 
and  frankest  hearted  of  men  and  authors.  Let  us 
here  give  him  the  word: 

"While  I  am  correcting  the  proof  of  this  article 
(dealing  with  Tourgueneff,  his  last  days,  etc.),  a 
book  of  'Souvenirs'  is  brought  to.  me  in  which  Tour 
gueneff,  from  the  other  side  of  the  grave,  criticizes 
me  without  mercy.  As  an  author,  I  am  beneath  all 
criticism;  as  a  man  I  am  the  lowest  of  my  kind! 
My  friends  were  well  aware  of  it  and  told  fine 
stories  about  me!  What  friends  did  Tourgueneff 
allude  to,  and  could  they  remain  my  friends  if  they 
held  such  an  opinion  of  me?  And  himself,  that 
excellent  Slav,  who  obliged  him  to  assume  so  cor 
dial  a  manner  with  me?  I  can  see  him  at  my  home, 
at  my  table,  gentle,  affectionate,  kissing  my  children. 
I  have  in  my  possession  many  exquisite,  warm 
hearted  letters  from  him.  And  this  was  what  lay 
beneath  that  kindly  smile.  Good  Heavens !  how 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  335 

strange  life  is,  and  how  true  that  charming  word 
of  the  Greek  language,  Eironeia!"     .     .     . 

Irony  is  in  truth  the  fittest  word  to  apply  to  those 
literary  enmities  that  so  deeply  corrode  the  soul,  and 
that  often  are  masked  by  a  seeming  friendship  until 
death  and  a  manuscript  bring  the  ugly  secret  to  light. 
But  it  cannot  be  disputed  that  the  hatreds  of  certain 
authors  add  much  interest  to  their  works.  A  posi 
tion  I  took  in  beginning  this  essay. 


336  ADVENTURES    IN 


CONSULE  PLANCO 

TIME  was  when  I  could  nurse  a  hate 
As  keen  as  ever  stalked  a  foe, 
And  bide  the  moment  soon  or  late 
When  he  the  hungry  steel  should  know. 
Yea,  I  have  felt  the  pleasing  glow 
That  waits  a  fatted  grudge  upon 
And  doth  a  heavenly  peace  bestow — 
But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 

Time  was  when  I  a  blow  could  strike 

Hard  and  straight  as  a  sledger's  mall, 
And  some  that  met  me  then  belike 

Chose  not  with  ease  their  place  to  fall, 
Nor  spared  for  quarter  soon  to  call 

When  hope  of  fighting  there  was  none, — 
The  same  tale  had  they  each  and  all — 

But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 

And  time  there  was  when  I  did  love 
Mine  enemy  e'en  as  my  friend, 

Nay,  held  him  at  some  price  above, 
For  that  with  him  I  must  contend 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  337 

And  all  my  trained  sinews  bend 

While  Hate's  fierce  pulses  urged  us  on 

Our  last  resource  of  strength  to  spend — 
But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 

In  love  as  hate  'twas  much  the  same} 

A  foeman  fierce,  a  wooer  bold; 
For  me  the  rigor  of  the  game, 

The  passion  that  nor  let  nor  hold 
Would  bide  until  the  tale  was  told 

And  ended,  oft,  'twixt  dark  and  dawn, 
When  my  desire  fell  dead  and  cold — 

But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 

Certes,  I  dipped  a  careless  hand 

In  peace,  that  fair  but  fulsome  dish, 
Whereat  sits  Age  with  drooling-band 

And  ever  hath  his  darling  wish. 
Porridge  for  babes  and  dotards — pish! 

It  served  me  not  for  blood  and  brawn. 
When  I  in  Youth's  fine  pool  did  fish — 

But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 

L'  Envoi 

Prince,  mark  you  how  the  years  decline 

With  Youth  and  Fame  alike  that  shone: 
The  glory  and  the  punch  were  mine — 

But  that  was  ten  years  past  and  gone. 


338  ADVENTURES    IN 


HENRIETTE  RENAN 

I  HAVE  been  reading,  not  for  the  first  time,  the 
story  of  her  love,  her  sacrifice  and  devotion, 
in  the  memoir  written  by  her  brother  Ernest 
Renan.     I  doubt  if  there  be  a  finer  page,  one  in 
which  the  heart  speaks  with  a  truer  accent,  in  the 
lists  of  biography. 

Great  as  her  brother  was,  interest  in  this  woman 
so  modest  and  self-effacing,  whose  whole  life  was  a 
tragedy  of  duty,  will  deepen  as  time  goes  on.  But 
for  her  influence  it  is  conceivable  that  the  world 
would  not  have  gained  the  ablest  liberal  scholar  of 
modern  times,  and  the  Church  would  not  have  had 
to  reckon  with  its  most  deadly  yet  suavest  antag 
onist.  She  was  his  intellectual  mate — he  admitted  it, 
and  he  compares  his  distress  of  mind  at  the  loss  of 
her  co-operation  to  the  "anguish  of  a  patient  who 
has  suffered  amputation  and  who  has  the  limb  he 
was  deprived  of  constantly  within  his  sight."  Her 
letters  to  him,  written  during  the  period  of  his  spir 
itual  struggle  at  Issy  and  St.  Sulpice,  are  scarcely 
less  interesting  than  his  own,  and  they  will  perhaps 
be  read  in  some  remote  time  when  the  "Life  of 
Jesus"  shall  be  neglected,  if  not  forgotten  (he  him- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  339 

self  has  said  that  after  the  lapse  of  a  thousand 
years  only  two  books,  the  Bible  and  Homer,  will  be 
reprinted). 

Yes,  even  on  intellectual  grounds,  Henriette  well 
deserves  that  her  name  should  live  with  that  of  the 
brother  to  whom  she  gave  all  the  treasures  of  her 
loving  soul,  whose  character  she  helped  to  form,  and 
whose  career  she  made  possible.  But  it  is  at  the 
purely  human  side  of  the  relation  which  united  Hen 
riette  and  Ernest  Renan  that  I  should  wish  to  glance 
in  this  little  paper.  The  world  knows  enough  of  his 
intellectual  glory;  it  knows,  too,  that  she  suffered 
herself  to  be  absorbed  in  him  and  his  work,  that 
her  mind  was  hardly  inferior  to  his,  nay,  that  his 
spirit  was  not  seldom  content  to  rest  on  lower  levels 
than  those  to  which  she  easily  ascended.  Let  us, 
then,  look  at  them  merely  as  brother  and  sister — it 
is  so,  we  may  be  sure,  that  she  would  prefer  to  be 
regarded. 

Renan  was  in  the  habit  of  attributing  the  Gascon 
in  his  nature  to  his  mother,  who,  as  he  tells  us, 
carried  a  gay,  witty  and  lively  disposition  even  into 
her  vigorous  old  age.  The  charming  traditions  and 
anecdotes  of  Treguier  in  the  forepart  of  the  "Recol- 
lections  of  My  Youth,"  were  chiefly  drawn  from  the 
well-stocked  memory  of  his  mother.  One  of  the 
happiest  impressions  I  have  myself  derived  from  that 
delightful  book,  is  the  picture  of  Renan  listening  to 


340  ADVENTURES    IN 

his  mother's  chat  at  evening  in  her  room  at  his  Paris 
home.  On  these  occasions,  he  tells  us,  a  light  was 
never  brought  in,  the  rays  of  a  friendly  street  lamp 
serving  to  make  a  kind  of  twilight  in  the  room, 
highly  favorable  to  the  legends  of  the  old  lady, 
which  were  always  concerned  with  le  vieux  temps 
in  Brittany.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  great  man  has 
given  us  anything  more  memorable  than  this  as  lit 
erature,  or  more  worthy  of  that  fine  sympathy  which 
was  the  distinctive  note  of  his  character. 

But  Henriette  had  inherited  her  father's  temper 
ament,  which  was  of  the  melancholy  Breton  cast — 
the  son  seems  not  to  preclude  the  painful  supposi 
tion  that  the  poor  man  sought  his  own  death,  as  the 
easiest  escape  from  his  troubles.  "Did  he  forget 
himself,"  he  asks,  uin  one  of  those  long  dreams  of 
the  Infinite,  which  in  that  Breton  race  often  verge 
upon  the  eternal  slumber?  Did  he  feel  that  he  had 
earned  repose?  .  .  .  We  know  not." 

Henriette's  melancholy  deepened  with  her  years. 
In  later  life  her  brother  says  she  had  a  sort  of  wor 
ship  of  sorrow  and  almost  welcomed  every  oppor 
tunity  of  shedding  tears.  Herein  she  differed 
greatly  from  the  author  of  the  "Life  of  Jesus," 
whose  uniform  good  spirits  and  mildly  satiric  gaiety 
gave  nearly  as  much  scandal  as  his  writings  to  the 
strictly  orthodox. 

In  her  youth  Henriette  was  much  admired  for  her 
modest  beauty — her  brother  speaks  of  the  peculiar 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  341 

softness  of  her  eyes  and  the  delicate  shapeliness  of 
her  hands.  Even  before  leaving  Treguier,  all  un- 
dowered  as  she  was,  she  might  have  married  well 
once  or  twice  but  for  the  idea  of  duty  which  bound 
her  to  her  family.  The  religious  atmosphere  of 
Treguier,  an  ancient  episcopal  city,  confirmed  her 
natural  sadness  and  strongly  inclined  her  toward 
a  life  of  retirement.  At  twelve  years,  her  brother 
says,  she  was  grave  in  thought  and  appearance, 
borne  down  with  anxiety,  haunted  by  melancholy 
presentiments.  And  here  is  one  of  the  tenderest 
pages  of  the  memoir,  written  when  the  sense  of  her 
loss  was  still  poignantly  fresh  with  Renan:  "I  came 
into  the  world  in  February,  1823.  The  advent  of  a 
little  brother  was  a  great  comfort  to  my  sister.  She 
attached  herself  to  me  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  shy 
and  tender  nature,  endued  with  an  immense  longing 
to  love  something.  I  remember  yet  the  petty  ty 
rannies  I  practised  on  her  and  against  which  she 
never  revolted.  When  she  was  going  out  in  full 
dress  to  attend  gatherings  of  girls  of  her  own  age, 
I  would  cling  to  her  gown  and  beseech  her  to  re 
main.  Then  she  would  turn  back,  take  off  her  holi 
day  attire  and  stay  with  me.  One  day,  in  jest,  she 
threatened  she  would  die  if  I  were  not  a  good  child, 
and  pretended  to  be  dead,  in  fact,  sitting  in  an  arm 
chair.  The  horror  caused  me  by  the  feigned  immo 
bility  of  my  dear  sister  is  perhaps  the  strongest  im 
pression  ever  made  upon  me,  whom  fate  did  not  per- 


342  ADVENTURES    IN 

mit  to  witness  her  last  sigh.  Beside  myself,  I  flew 
at  her  and  bit  her  terribly  on  the  arm.  I  can  hear 
the  shriek  she  gave  even  now.  To  all  the  reproaches 
showered  on  me  I  could  make  only  one  answer,  'But 
why  were  you  dead?  Are  you  going  to  die  again?'  ' 

Henriette  was  seventeen  when  the  father's  death 
threw  upon  her  a  large  share  of  the  burden  of  sup 
porting  the  little  family.  She  had  thought  much 
of  entering  the  conventual  life  and  she  was  espe 
cially  drawn  to  a  convent  in  a  near-by  town  (Lan- 
nion)  which  was  part  hospital  and  part  seminary. 
To  Lannion  the  family  removed  after  the  catas 
trophe  which  had  plunged  them  into  poverty,  but 
Henriette  at  once  gave  up  her  dream  of  a  religious 
vocation.  She  looked  upon  herself  as  being  respon 
sible  for  her  brother's  future,  and  she  set  herself 
not  only  to  aid  in  supporting  the  family  but  also 
to  clear  off  the  heavy  debts  which  her  father  had 
left  them. 

The  family  returned  to  Treguier  and  Henriette 
took  up  the  work  of  a  professional  teacher.  Alain, 
the  elder  brother,  had  gone  to  try  his  fortune  in 
Paris.  Henriette  failed  after  a  trial  of  much  bit 
terness,  and  no  resort  was  left  her  but  to  follow 
Alain  into  exile.  She  obtained  a  position  in  Paris, 
as  under-mistress  in  a  small  school  for  girls.  Her 
brother  records  that  the  beginning  of  her  Paris  life 
was  terrible.  "That  cold  and  arid  world,  so  full  of 
imposition  and  imposture,  that  populous  desert 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  343 

where  she  counted  not  one  single  friend,  drove  her 
desperate."  The  homesickness  which  causes  the 
Breton  conscript  to  die  without  any  apparent  mal 
ady,  assailed  her  cruelly,  but  her  resolution  stood 
firm.  After  a  time  of  many  hardships  and  great 
labor  she  secured  a  better  place.  Her  brother  ob 
serves  that  during  this  period  she  attained  a  "pro 
digious  mental  development,"  working  sixteen  hours 
a  day  and  successfully  passing  all  the  prescribed 
public  examinations.  She  became  especially  strong 
in  history,  and  at  the  same  time  her  religious  ideas 
underwent  a  change.  Like  her  brother,  afterward, 
she  rejected  the  supernatural,  but  as  he  himself  re 
cords,  "the  fundamental  religious  sentiment  which 
was  hers  by  nature,  as  well  as  by  reason  of  her  early 
education,  was  too  deep  to  be  shaken." 


I  pass  quickly  over  those  five  years  in  Paris,  the 
most  important  result  of  which  was  her  procuring 
for  Ernest  a  scholarship  in  the  Catholic  seminary  of 
St.  Nicholas  du  Chardonnet  and  thus  opening  for 
him  a  career  which  has  received  as  much  of  the 
"fierce  white  light"  that  beats  upon  an  intellectual 
throne  as  any  in  modern  times.  Kenan's  account  of 
the  matter  is  as  follows: 

"Educated  at  Treguier  by  some  worthy  priests 
who  managed  a  sort  of  seminary  there,  I  had  early 
given  signs  of  an  inclination  toward  the  ecclesiasti- 


344  ADVENTURES    IN 

cal  state  of  life.  The  prizes  I  won  at  school  de 
lighted  my  sister  who  mentioned  them  to  a  kind- 
hearted  and  distinguished  man,  physician  to  the 
school  in  which  she  taught  and  a  very  zealous  Cath 
olic,  Dr.  Descuret.  He  reported  the  chance  of  get 
ting  a  good  pupil  to  Monseigneur  Dupanloup,  then 
the  brilliantly  successful  manager  of  the  small  sem 
inary  of  St.  Nicholas  du  Chardonnet,  and  came  back 
to  my  sister  with  the  news  that  he  had  the  offer  of  a 
scholarship  for  me.  I  was  then  fifteen  and  a  half 
years  old."  Renan  admits  that  even  thus  early  his 
sister  was  inclined  to  view  the  decided  clerical  bent 
of  his  education  with  some  regret.  Her  own  relig 
ious  convictions  were  tottering;  but,  he  says,  she 
knew  the  respect  due  to  a  child's  faith  and  never  at 
this  time  sought  to  dissuade  him  from  the  path  which 
he  was  following,  uof  his  freest  volition."  And  he 
records  with  a  touch  for  which  we  may  be  grateful : 
"She  came  to  see  me  every  week,  still  wearing  the 
plain  green  woollen  shawl  which  had  sheltered  her 
proud  poverty  far  away  in  Brittany." 

Thus  Henriette  gave  him  to  the  Church,  as  it  was 
Henriette  who  later  influenced  him  to  renounce  the 
priestly  calling. 

After  five  years  in  Paris,  her  meagre  salary  being 
all  inadequate  to  the  demands  upon  it,  Henriette 
decided  upon  a  further  sacrifice.  To  pay  off  her 
father's  debts  and  to  secure  the  little  homestead  at 
Treguier,  she  accepted  a  more  distant  and  far  less 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  345 

hopeful  exile  than  that  to  which  she  had  now  in 
some  degree  grown  accustomed.  Leaving  France, 
which  she  was  not  again  to  see  for  ten  long  years — 
this  was  in  the  winter  of  1841 — she  crossed  the 
greater  part  of  Europe  and  entered  the  service  of  a 
noble  family  in  Poland,  as  governess  and  private 
teacher. 

In  1845  Ernest  Renan  declined  the  vows  that 
would  have  made  him  a  priest  forever  according  to 
the  order  of  Melchisedec,  and  left  the  Seminary  of 
St.  Sulpice.  He  was  not  then  a  priest,  as  many  have 
wrongly  supposed,  though  he  had  assumed  the  ton 
sure  and  taken  minor  orders.  It  is  also  important 
to  note  that  he  renounced  the  Church  and  the  Chris 
tian  faith  on  purely  scientific  grounds.  Renan  never 
dreamt  of  taking  up  any  other  form  of  Christianity, 
still  less  of  joining  those  inconsistent  sectaries  who 
call  themselves  Liberal  or  Neo-Catholics  and  whose 
delusion  seems  proof  against  the  most  constant  dis 
couragement  and  even  an  occasional  excommunica 
tion.  His  Catholicism,  as  he  said,  was  the  Cathol 
icism  of  the  Fathers,  of  the  revered  dogmatists  of 
the  Church,  from  whose  canon  and  interpretation 
there  is  henceforth  no  appeal.  Being  unable  to  ac 
cept  it,  he  separated  himself  from  it — there  was  no 
middle  course  for  him.  Casuistically  regarded,  this 
ought  to  give  Renan,  in  the  Catholic  view,  a  pre 
ferred  position  among  agnostics;  yet  no  man,  not 
even  Voltaire,  has  been  more  bitterly  assailed  by  the 


346  ADVENTURES    IN 

rancor  ecclesiastical.  And  of  all  kinds  of  human 
malevolence,  it  has  long  since  been  agreed  that  this 
is  the  very  worst. 


The  story  of  Kenan's  doubts  and  his  final  deter 
mination  by  which  Treguier  may  have  lost  a  bishop 
who  would  have  revived  her  ancient  traditions,  is 
powerfully  told  in  the  "Recollections."  There  in 
deed  it  has  its  meditated  literary  form,  but  I  prefer 
the  simpler,  artless  version  in  the  "Letters,"  which 
were  not  published  until  after  the  death  of  Ernest 
Renan.  I  prefer  it  also  because  these  "Letters"  lay 
bare  the  very  soul  of  Henriette  and  exhibit  such  an 
example  of  devotion  to  truth  and  duty  as  is  rarely 
given  to  the  world.  The  crowning  obligation  which 
Ernest  Renan  owed  to  the  love  and  devotion  of  his 
sister  is  best  told  in  his  own  words : 

"My  sister  advanced  me  a  sum  of  twelve  hundred 
francs  to  enable  me  to  wait  and  to  supplement  what 
ever  insufficiency  of  income  such  a  position  (that  of 
usher  or  under-teacher)  might  at  first  present.  That 
sum  was  the  corner-stone  of  my  whole  life.  I  never 
exhausted  it,  but  it  secured  me  the  calm  of  mind  so 
indispensable  if  I  was  to  think  in  peace,  and  saved 
me  from  being  overwhelmed  by  taskwork  which 
would  have  broken  me  down." 

Brave  Henriette!  Her  reward  was  to  come  in 
the  six  years  of  perfect  happiness  and  peace  during 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  347 

which  she  and  her  brother  lived  together  in  Paris 
after  her  return  from  Poland.  Her  greatest  trial, 
too,  belongs  to  the  close  of  this  period,  when  Ernest 
married  and  his  heart  was  shared  by  another.  Let 
no  one  think  to  censure  Henriette  because  it  cost 
her  a  terrible  struggle  to  divide  her  brother's  love. 
There  is  no  great  love  that  is  not  selfish  and  ex 
clusive  by  its  very  nature,  and  that  of  Henriette  was 
no  exception.  God  knows  her  long  years  of  bitter 
exile,  her  youth  wasted  in  labor  and  self-sacrifice, 
her  prayers,  and  tears,  and  devotion,  gave  her  the 
first  title  in  this  brother's  affections.  So  he  recog 
nized  and  so  he  told  her  at  last,  after  a  season  of 
misunderstanding  that  sorely  tried  both  their  hearts; 
offering  to  relinquish  in  her  favor  this  other  love. 
Ah,  but  this  was  to  challenge  the  nobility  of  her  na 
ture — she  whose  life  had  been  all  sacrifice  would  ac 
cept  none  at  his  hands.  So  the  marriage  took  place 
and  the  tact  and  graciousness  of  the  young  wife  * 
soon  brought  about  a  perfect  union  and  reconcilia 
tion  of  all  three.  It  was  Henriette's  savings  that 
set  the  young  housekeeping  on  foot — without  her, 
Renan  confesses,  he  could  never  have  coped  with  his 
new  responsibilities.  The  birth  of  one  child  and  the 
untimely  death  of  another  still  closer  drew  these  lov 
ing  hearts.  After  her  own  death  he  wrote: 

"Oh,  my  God,  have  I  done  all  that  in  me  lay  to 

*Renan  married   Cornelie  Scheffer,  niece  of  the  famous  painter  Ary 
Scheffer. 


348  ADVENTURES    IN 

ensure  her  happiness?  With  what  bitterness  do  I 
now  reproach  myself  for  my  habit  of  reserve  toward 
her,  for  not  having  told  her  oftener  how  dear  I  held 
her,  for  having  yielded  too  easily  to  my  love  of  si 
lent  meditation,  for  not  having  made  the  most  of 
every  hour  in  which  she  was  spared  to  me?  But  I 
take  that  rare  soul  to  witness  that  she  was  always 
first  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  that  she  ruled  my  whole 
moral  life  as  none  other  ever  ruled  it,  that  she  was 
the  constant  beginning  and  end  of  all  my  existence 
in  sorrow  and  in  joy." 

Let  us  hope  that  the  dead  are  not  denied  the  con 
solation  of  hearing  such  avowals! 


Henriette  Renan  died  in  Syria  in  the  year  1860. 
With  Madame  Renan  she  had  accompanied  her 
brother  on  a  scientific  mission  to  the  country  known 
In  ancient  times  as  Phoenicia.  This  honorable 
function  had  been  intrusted  to  Renan  by  the  Empe 
ror  Napoleon  III,  and  it  had  the  most  important 
results  upon  his  career.  Readers  of  the  "Life  of 
Jesus"  will  remember  the  beautiful  dedication — 
perhaps  the  most  beautiful  ever  penned — "to  the 
pure  soul  of  my  sister  Henriette."  For  it  was  amid 
the  scenes  consecrated  by  the  Gospel  that  he  wrote 
the  greater  part  of  his  most  celebrated  work.  In 
this  congenial  task  brother  and  sister  passed  a  short 
period  of  great  happiness.  The  village  of  Ghazir, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  349 

high  above  the  sea  at  the  far  end  of  the  bay  of  Kes- 
rouan,  is  especially  identified  with  this  sojourn.  Re- 
nan  describes  it  as  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  the 
world.  It  is  surrounded  by  exquisite  green  valleys, 
and  the  mountains  are  more  beautiful,  he  says,  than 
anything  he  had  seen  in  the  Lebanon. 

Henriette  shared  to  the  full  his  labor  and  his  en 
thusiasm  in  writing  the  "Life  of  Jesus."  All  day 
they  worked  together  in  silence  and  at  night  they 
planned  the  morrow's  task.  "I  shall  love  this 
book,"  she  said,  "because  we  have  done  it  together, 
first  of  all,  and  then  because  I  like  it  for  itself."  She 
had  never  been  so  happy  and  her  communion  with 
her  brother  had  never  been  so  intimate.  Often  she 
remarked  that  those  days  at  Ghazir  were  passing  by 
as  in  a  Paradise.  Alas !  it  is  in  such  ideal  moments 
that  Fate  prepares  her  worst.  Poor  Henriette's 
pride  and  pleasure  were  short-lived.  In  the  midst 
of  their  preoccupation  sister  and  brother  were  at 
tacked  by  the  terrible  fever  which  is  endemic  along 
the  Syrian  coast.  They  were  now  at  the  village  of 
Amschit,  which  they  had  previously  made  their 
headquarters  while  in  the  Byblos  region.  Sister  and 
brother  were  alone  together  in  this  last  solemn  scene, 
Madame  Renan  having  been  recalled  to  Europe  a 
short  time  before.  Henriette's  weakened  constitu 
tion  speedily  yielded  to  the  dread  malady:  she 
passed  away  while  her  brother  lay  unconscious  in 
the  next  room.  "We  may  have  bidden  each  other 


350  ADVENTURES    IN 

farewell,"  he  says,  ufor  all  I  know.  She  may  have 
spoken  some  precious  parting  word  which  the  ter 
rible  hand  of  Fate  has  wiped  from  the  tablet  of  my 
brain. "  His  own  state  was  so  desperate  that  the 
doctor  would  suffer  no  delay,  but  ordered  that  he  be 
carried  away  at  once  in  a  litter  which  had  been  in 
tended  for  Henriette,  and  placed  on  board  a  French 
ship  that  lay  in  waiting.  The  physician  remained 
behind  to  superintend  her  funeral.  The  simple  vil 
lagers  of  Amschit,  who  had  learned  to  love  her,  fol 
lowed  her  to  the  grave.  She  was  laid  to  rest  in  the 
tomb  of  a  kindly  Maronite.  There  she  still  reposes. 
"I  shrink  from  the  idea  of  taking  her  from  the  beau 
tiful  mountains  where  she  had  been  so  happy,"  wrote 
her  brother;  "from  the  midst  of  the  worthy  folk  she 
loved,  to  lay  her  in  one  of  those  dreary  modern 
cemeteries  she  held  in  such  deep  horror.  Some  day, 
of  course,  she  must  come  back  to  me,  but  who  can 
tell  what  corner  of  the  world  shall  hold  my  grave? 
Let  her  wait  for  me,  then,  under  the  palms  of  Am 
schit,  in  the  land  of  the  antique  mysteries,  by  sacred 
Byblos!"  .  .  . 

Such  is,  too  hastily  sketched,  the  portrait  of  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  souls  that  ever  came  from 
God.  Not  less  valuable  was  her  life  than  her  bro 
ther's,  in  its  lofty  courage  and  devotion  to  duty — 
of  a  higher  value,  indeed,  as  he  himself  confessed, 
in  its  idealistic  attachment  to  pure  virtue. 

Hers  was  no  cloistered  sanctity  refining  upon  it- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  351 

self  and  practising  a  supreme  egoism  in  the  name  of 
religion.  Her  truth  was  tried  by  every  test  of  sac 
rifice,  by  the  crucible  of  a  bitter  experience  with  the 
world,  by  an  utter  renunciation  of  self.  She  loved 
much,  truly,  and  through  the  wondrous  power  of  a 
great  love,  her  life  attained  harmony  and  complete 
ness. 

Saint  Henriette! 


352  ADVENTURES    IN 


BALLADE  OF  POOR  SOULS 

SWEET  Christ,  who  gavest  Thy  blood  for  us, 
Tho'  we  have  missed  its  healing  grace, 
And  by  temptations  tenebrous, 
Come  all  to  meet  in  the  Evil  Place: 
Turn  not  from  us  Thy  tender  face, 

Now  when  the  Pit  yawns  foul  and  sheer; 
Ah,  think  how  long  th'  Eternal  Space — 
And  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Poor  souls  are  we  that  might  not  climb, 

Ensnared  by  the  world's  iron  gin, 
Yet  have  we  known  the  Tale  Sublime 

Of  Him  who  died  our  souls  to  win; 
And  oft-times  we  were  sick  of  sin, 

Yea,  heard  that  call  so  sweet  and  clear, 
But  sank  again  our  toils  within — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Strong  bonds  of  circumstance  have  made 
The  Prison-House  that  held  us  fast; 

And  some  have  cursed  and  some  have  prayed, 
But  few  the  outer  doors  have  passed : 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  353 

And  some  do  watch  with  mien  aghast, 
The  while  their  fellows  flout  and  fleer, 

But  hope  leaves  all  alike  at  last — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here! 

Yet  God's  o'er  all — and  Christ  doth  know 

Why  this  unequal  doom  we  bear, 
That  some,  like  plants,  in  virtue  grow, 

And  others  damn  themselves  with  care: 
Mayhap  His  providence  is  there, 

The  Riddle  Dark  at  last  to  clear, 
And  change  to  hope  this  Fell  Despair — 

For  Hell  hath  been  our  portion  here ! 

Sweet  Mary's  Son,  turn  not  from  us, 

Tho'  we  have  missed  Thy  saving  grace, 
And  by  temptations  tenebrous, 

Come  all  to  meet  in  the  Evil  Place : 
Thy  mercy  shall  our  sins  efface, 

E'en  at  the  Pit's  mouth  yawning  sheer, 
For  pity  of  our  woeful  case — 

Since  Hell  was  aye  our  portion  here ! 


354  ADVENTURES    IN 


IN  THE  SHADOW 

LATELY  I  was  in  a  drab  mood.  Though  not 
what  you  would  call  a  melancholy  man,  I 
have,  like  other  people,  my  ups  and  downs. 
Nothing  particular  the  matter  this  time.  A  little 
brain  fag.  I  had  been  forcing  the  pace,  and  the 
mind  is  a  sullen  rebel  under  the  spur.  Besides,  it 
had  fed  too  long  on  itself,  and  now  my  Evil  Genius, 
in  revenge,  was  propounding  the  old  problem, 
What's  the  use?  .  .  .  Oh,  such  an  old  problem,  one 
that  every  man  is  threshing  out  for  himself  from 
the  cradle  to  the  grave ! 

I  have  got  to  know  well  what  that  bodes,  and 
am  quick  to  take  my  cue  when  I  see  that  the  E.  G. 
means  business. — Cut  it  out  and  do  something  else. 
It  took  me  many  years  to  learn  that,  but  it's  really 
the  only  way  to  avoid  an  unprofitable  argument,  and 
one  in  which  I  am  always  worsted. 

So  I  measured  the  thin  pile  of  copy  before  me 
with  a  sigh.  No  promise  of  a  holiday  in  that.  Not 
nearly  enough  for  my  share  of  a  single  number  of 
"Papyrus."  Too  much  leeway  for  the  distinguished 
contributors.  People  will  say  I  am  running  out. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  355 

What  a  curse  is  this  tardy,  reluctant  coinage  of  the 
brain !  Why  do  you  plague  yourself  with  a  task  that 
brings  you  neither  money  nor  tupennyworth  of  fame. 
Youth  is  gone  and  you  still  chase  the  ignis  fatuus  in 
the  cold  lights  of  advancing  middle  age.  If  you 
had  to  do  this,  if  you  couldn't  turn  to  something 
else,  there  might  be  an  excuse,  but  it  is  not  so — you 
wield  the  lash  over  yourself  and  are  become  your 
own  bondsman,  or  rather  the  slave  of  a  foolish  ego 
tism.  And  to  what  purpose?  Yes,  you  poor,  con 
centrated,  self-deluded  idiot,  face  the  truth! — to 
waste  the  little  of  life  that  may  remain  (you  know 
it  can't  be  much,  for  you  were  a  fine  spendthrift  of 
your  best  days)  with  the  utterly  ridiculous  and  un 
founded  hope  (you  dare  not  in  lucid  intervals  con 
fess  it  even  to  yourself)  of  leaving  a  small  literary 
name  behind  you — so  your  deprecating  mock-mod 
esty  would  phrase  it.  Bosh !  Fiddlesticks !  Tommy- 
rot  ! — will  you  NEVER  have  sense  ?  .  .  . 

Here  the  voice  of  the  E.  G.  rises  clamantly  and 
I  abandon  the  dispute  by  taking  up  the  few  sheets 
of  copy  and  hiding  them  in  a  drawer.  Internal 
silence  follows  and  a  cowardly  sort  of  self-approval. 
The  E.  G.  never  abuses  his  victories,  but  I  know  the 
game  is  his  to-day,  and  I  turn  with  another  sigh  to 
my  letters.  I  really  had  promised  myself  a  good 
stint  of  work  ...  oh,  well — Manana! 

And  this,  as  it  chanced,  was  the  first  letter  I 
opened: 


356  ADVENTURES    IN 

St.  Luke's  Hospital,  New  York,  Dec.  26,  '08. 
Dear  Mr.  Editor: 

Your  Palms  of  Papyrus — (a  worthy  companion 
to  Benigna  V ena)  reached  me  here  a  few  days  ago, 
and  I  thank  you  for  your  attention.  I  came 
here  about  the  first  of  August  with  an  incurable  case 
of  cancer  of  the  throat,  for  which  the  operation  of 
tracheotomy  was  performed.  It  prolonged  my  life, 
but  it  is  a  most  disagreeable  and  loathsome  affliction. 
How  long  it  may  last  cannot  be  told,  but  I  am 
growing  weaker  day  by  day.  I  will  send  the 
Palms  to  a  dear  friend  of  mine  who  can  and  will 
enjoy  it,  as  a  Christmas  present.  He  will  bless  me 
for  it,  I  know. 

Wishing  you  a  merry  Christmas  and  that  the 
new  guest — 

Whose  step  is  at  the  door,  my  friend, 

Whose  step  is  at  the  door, 

— may  bring  to  you  divine  blessings  every  day  of 
the  New  Year,  I  remain, 

Very  sincerely  yours, 

*     *     * 

To  say  that  I  wept  over  this  letter  is  nothing,  for 
only  a  man  without  a  heart  or  the  sense  of  human 
kinship  could  restrain  his  tears.  But  the  sweet  pa 
tience  of  my  unknown  friend,  the  kindly  thought  for 
others,  the  quiet  bravery  under  the  very  hand  of 
death — and  such  a  death ! — these  things  smote  upon 
me  with  such  a  rebuke  of  my  own  cowardly  petu 
lance — I  in  health,  free  to  go  or  come,  to  do  or  leave 
undone — that  I  was  fairly  driven  to  my  knees  by  this 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  357 

touching  and  utterly  unlooked-for  message  from  one 
in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow. 

Then  from  my  soul  I  sent  a  prayer  of  encourage 
ment  to  that  poor  stricken  one  fighting  the  fight  that 
in  one  shape  or  another  is  destined  unto  us  all.  And 
in  my  pity  for  him  it  seemed  that  I  had  cast  off  half 
my  own  burden,  for  I  felt  strangely  lightened,  and 
found  myself  saying  unawares : 

"Oh,  life  is  good,  and  health  is  good,  and  good  it 
is  to  have  leave  to  work  at  one's  heart's  desire;  but 
better,  far  better  and  higher  than  these,  is  the  cour 
age  of  the  human  heart  that  takes  from  the  grave 
its  sting  and  from  Death  his  victory!" 


/PLANTED  a   tiny   palm   tree  with 
anxious    care,    nursing    it    with    my 
hopes,  strengthening  it  with  my  pray 
ers,  watering  it  with  my  tears.     It  grew 
and    spread    until — oh,     marvel! — many 
weary   ones   came  and  sat  in   the  shade 
thereof.     Allah  be  praised! 


358 


EASTER 

EASTER  Sunday:  cool,  bright  and  beautiful. 
I  am  trying  to  work  at  a  long  deferred  task, 
but  the  spirit  of  the  day  overcomes  me  and  I 
sit  at  my  desk,  idly  musing. 

The  sun  is  warm,  as  of  the  resurrection  of  all  life, 
while  the  air  holds  yet  a  chill,  as  of  the  death  or 
winter  scarce  past.     Truly  an  ideal  Easter. 
He  is  risen. 

Believe  or  believe  not,  it  is  impossible  to  refuse 
entrance  to  this  thought;  in  spite  of  your  most  reso 
lute  refusal,  it  will  come  in. 

From  my  window  I  see  many  children  in  bright 
dresses  and  hats  gay  with  ribbons  faring  homeward 
from  church.  My  own  little  girl,  the  darling  of  my 
heart,  comes  in  quietly  to  see  if  I  approve  of  her 
Easter  hat  and  frock  and  to  give  me  the  kiss  of 
peace — she  is  only  five.  I  look  into  her  shining  eyes 
with  the  love  that  innocence  alone  can  awaken,  and 
the  thought  comes,  as  ever  in  the  presence  of  what 
we  hold  most  dear — of  losing  her.  Instantly  the 
words  recur — 
He  is  risen. 

Then,  as  I  return  her  kiss,  I  think  of  her  little 

359 


360  ADVENTURES    IN 

brother  whom  she  never  saw,  for  he  grew  weary 
and  left  us  ere  she  was  born.  His  eyes  were  blue 
and  hers  are  vivid  dark-brown  with  glints  of  fire  in 
them;  his  hair  was  light  as  the  corn-tassel  and  hers 
matches  her  eyes.  My  heart  swells  with  the  pain 
of  an  old  sorrow  as  I  think  of  that  tiny  little  grave 
so  pathetic  in  its  loneliness,  while  my  house  rings 
with  the  mirth  of  joyous  children.  Involuntarily 
my  lips  frame  that  question  which  Love  has  ever 
been  asking  since  Death  first  came  into  the  world. 
Yet  hardly  is  it  framed  when  it  dies  in  the  thought — 
He  is  risen. 

Now  by  a  natural  association,  my  mind  travels  to 
the  famous  writer  who  passed  away  on  Good  Friday 
last,  in  the  foreign  land  where  he  had  long  made  his 
home.  Stricken  in  the  fulness  of  his  fame  and  the 
vigor  of  his  strength,  when  many  years  seemed  yet 
to  await  him,  he  at  first,  with  no  unmanly  weakness, 
grieved  over  the  sudden  blow  of  fate.  Then,  forti 
fying  his  spirit  with  the  faith  he  had  ever  held,  he 
said  to  his  loved  ones  with  joyous  resignation,  re 
membering  the  day — "I  am  dying  with  Christ!" 
.  .  .  He  is  risen. 

So  I  think  of  the  countless  millions  who  have  lived 
and  died  in  the  consoling  belief  that  One  broke  for 
them  the  iron  gates  of  death — of  the  innumerable 
mothers  of  the  race  always  looking  to  Him  to  re 
store  their  children — of  the  broken  hearts  that  faith 
will  have  it,  only  He  can  heal ;  of  the  tears  that  only 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  361 

He  can  dry — and  though  you  prove  to  me  that  this 
Man  never  rose  from  the  dead,  I  ask  myself,  has 
the  world,  after  all,  lost  anything  by  the  belief  that 
He  did?  Would  it  be,  in  any  respect,  a  happier  and 
better  world  were  that  belief  to  perish?  Is  there 
not  something  in  that  belief  to  quicken  the  life  of 
the  spirit  in  all  of  us,  whatever  be  our  creed?  Who 
would,  had  he  the  power,  strike  that  belief  dead  to 
day  in  the  millions  of  hearts  that  cherish  it?  In  a 
word,  who  would  contradict  and  unsay  the  universal 
message  of  this  happy  day,  tinkling  in  the  church 
bells,  shining  in  the  bright  eyes  of  the  children,  re 
flected  in  the  calm  content  of  the  elders,  breathing 
in  the  warm  air  and  first  fragrance  of  the  reviving 
year,  thrilling  the  hearts  of  the  many  in  sick  cham 
bers  and  hospitals  about  to  bid  farewell  to  this  brief 
life?  .  .  . 

He  is  risen! 

Call  it  a  mere  childish  fiction:  are  there  not  fic 
tions  more  beautiful  and  consoling  than  facts?  Call 
it  a  vision :  is  not  the  highest  truth  revealed  to  us  in 
visions?  Call  it  a  dream:  has  humanity  anything 
better  than  its  dreams? 


TT  IfAVE  no  fear,  dear  heart,  of  aught 
i  i  the  future  may  bring — God  and  thy 
-*•  -*•  soul  are  the  same  forever.  Far  of 
the  days  threaten,  a  hostile  army,  but  near 
they  reach  out  friendly  hands.  Do  but 
smile  on  these  portents  and  they  will  melt 
like  a  dream  at  dawn.  The  past  has  no 
terrors  for  thee — patience!  time  is  ever 
turning  the  future  into  the  pastj 


362 


THE  TALISMAN 

I  DON'T  mind  telling  you  that  I  am  one  of  those 
specially  constituted — I  dare  not  say  favored 
— persons  who  never  really  grow  old.  Osier 
can  not  lay  his  hangman's  hands  upon  me.  I  am 
immune  from  the  terrible  sentence  under  which  the 
human  race  in  general  is  laboring.  I  have  struck  a 
truce  with  Time  and  never  waste  a  minute  thinking 
about  him.  I  do  not  watch  the  Great  Clock  and 
have  no  fear  of  its  audit.  I  smile,  heart-free,  at  the 
poor  awkwardly  dissembling  antiquities  around  me, 
making  their  sorry  pretence  of  not  being  under  the 
hand  of  Time.  In  vain  they  seek  to  hide  the  livery 
of  Age,  whilst  I  bear  in  my  bosom  the  consciousness 
of  immortal  Youth. 

Oh,  I  was  not  always  thus  fortified  against  the 
universal  fear.  At  the  first  gray  hair,  at  the  earliest 
light  frost  o'  the  blood,  at  the  premier  discord  in 
Youth's  sweet  pipe,  I  was  seized  with  a  panic  dread. 
What!  abdicate  Youth  and  all  its  sweet,  ineffable 
privilege — the  recurrent  desire  of  Spring,  the  lusti- 
hood  of  Summer,  the  golden  fruition  of  Autumn — 
all  the  glowing  flower-enwreathed  cornucopia  of  life ! 
Ah,  no! — I  revolted  at  the  thought,  shuddering  at 

363 


364  ADVENTURES    IN 

the  apparition  of  Age  as  though  it  were  Death  him 
self  with  his  unsparing  scythe. 

But  soon,  growing  wiser,  I  learned  in  a  rarely  for 
tunate  moment  that  to  fear  Age  or  Death  or  any 
other  calamity  is  to  invite  it ;  that  the  true  seat  and 
source  of  Youth  is  in  the  mind  and  the  spirit;  that 
no  misfortune  can  overcome  us  without  the  consent 
of  the  soul. 

Once  firmly  possessed  of  this  Talisman,  I  threw 
off  all  fear  and  entered  upon  the  joyous  life  of  an 
Immortal.  My  treasures  were  immensely  increased ; 
I  was  infinitely  rich  where  I  had  deemed  myself 
poor.  The  world  was  a  thousand  times  more  beau 
tiful.  I  never  wearied  of  day  and  the  sun;  never 
could  have  enough  of  night  and  the  stars.  For  the 
first  time  I  felt  myself  to  be  a  part  of  this  adorable 
universe  which  to  so  many  poor  earth-pilgrims  seems 
only  a  fleeting  mirage,  seen  through  their  tears.  I 
said:  I  am  at  home  in  my  Father's  house,  heir  to  all 
this  Wonder  and  Beauty,  and  none  shall  rob  me  of 
my  inheritance. 

Each  morning  I  touched  my  sovereign  Talisman 
and  looked  into  my  heart  to  see  that  no  lurking  fear 
was  seeking  entrance  there.  Then  I  went  forth  as 
frank  and  unafraid  as  the  sun.  I  was  wrapt  in  Cos 
mic  security;  stars  and  systems  were  not  safer  than 
I.  And  I  saw  that  the  count  of  days  but  added  to 
my  vigor  and  renewed  my  freshness;  that  the  years 
ceased  to  take  away  with  thieving  hand;  that  at  an 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  365 

age  when  spiritless  men  sit  down  to  lament  their  lost 
youth,  I  was  Lord  of  very  Life  indeed! 

Something,  I  will  confess,  of  my  old  eagerness 
was  abated  with  my  new  wisdom.  I  no  longer 
sought  to  pull  aside  the  curtain  betwixt  day  and  day 
— Nature  has  her  own  penalty  for  him  who  would 
pry  too  curiously  into  her  secrets.  I  schooled  my 
restless  heart  to  accept  the  Cosmic  patience.  I 
strove  to  make  myself  a  part  of  the  great  unhurrying 
procession  whose  beginning  no  man  saw — whose  end 
perchance  no  human  eye  shall  look  upon. 

Would  you  be  emancipated  from  the  universal 
doom  under  which  men  sicken  and  die  with  the  first 
cold  breath  of  Time,  or  if  they  die  not,  lose  that  vital 
pulse  without  which  life  is  but  a  lamentable,  barren, 
hopeless  counterfeit?  I  have  shown  you  my  Talis 
man;  I  have  told  you  my  secret. 

Cast  away  fear !  Learn  to  live  in  Nature.  Attach 
your  spirit  to  the  Cosmic  Law. 

Death,  decrepitude,  old  age,  are  only  for  those 
who  will  them.  .  .  . 

I  once  met  with  a  little  man  who  claimed  to  have 
hit  upon  the  recipe  for  happiness — it  was  to  look 
only  at  the  bright  side  of  things.  There  was  noth 
ing  novel  in  this,  surely,  although  the  little  man  was 
convinced  that  he  had  made  an  original  discovery. 
The  novelty  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  set  out  to  live 
up  to  his  theory  and  got  the  credit  of  doing  so.  He 
formed  "Sunshine  Societies"  in  different  parts  of  the 


366  ADVENTURES    IN 

country  and  became  somewhat  famous  under  the 
nickname  of  Sunshine  Seward.  When  I  knew  him 
he  was  trying  to  worry  a  little  money  for  his  "cause" 
from  a  philanthropist  whom  we  both  knew.  He 
didn't  get  it,  and  he  told  me  afterward  that  the 
effort  was  about  as  hopeless  as  the  scheme  of  the 
chemist  in  "Gulliver,"  who  sought  to  extract  sun 
beams  from  cucumbers.  He  was  not  cast  down  by 
his  failure,  however,  for  that  were  to  discredit  his 
own  system;  and  so  he  tripped,  or  perhaps  I  would 
better  say,  rayed  merrily  away  to  other  pastures. 

I  wonder  is  he  still  in  the  land  of  the  living? 
There  was  snow  on  his  head  when  I  knew  him,  but 
his  gay  spirits  and  lightheartedness  would  not  have 
misbecome  a  brown-haired  youth.  I  call  to  mind 
also  his  rippling  speech,  so  happily  unlike  the  dry 
talk  of  men  of  his  age,  in  whom  the  fountains  of 
the  spirit  seem  congealed.  Lightly  enough  I  dis 
missed  him  at  the  time  of  our  parting,  but  often 
since  have  I  thought  of  him,  when  I  have  felt  the 
need  of  his  buoyant  philosophy.  For  the  hardest 
thing  in  the  stress  of  life  is  to  be  at  the  same  time 
sane  and  cheerful;  to  bid  farewell  once  and  forever 
to  Atra  Cura  and  all  her  sullen  progeny  of  the 
Night,  and  to  face  victoriously  the  hope  and  splen 
dor  of  the  Dawn.  To  do  this,  I  would  say,  and  yet 
not  to  intermit  or  stifle  that  faculty  of  reflection 
which  bespeaks  the  Divinity  within  us.  For  there 
are  many  things  which  admonish  us  that  it  is  the 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  367 

fool's  part  to  be  merry  always,  as  it  is  the  misan 
thrope's  to  suck  ever  his  black  humors. 

I  am  not  sure  that  my  friend  Sunshine  Seward 
would  favor  considering  the  matter  so  deeply.  The 
sunshine  program,  as  he  defined  it,  was  simply  to  cut 
out  the  dark  side  of  things,  and  this  was  to  be  ef 
fected  by  getting  and  holding  the  right  mental  atti 
tude.  No  doubt  it  can  be  done,  for  long  before  Sun 
shine  Seward  rayed  out  of  the  Infinite,  Hamlet  told 
the  world  that  "there  is  nothing  either  good  or  bad 
but  thinking  makes  it  so." 

Let  us  be  cheerful — that  is  to  say  without  fear — 
and  then  nothing  can  or  will  harm  us. 


368  ADVENTURES    IN 


AN  OLD  BOY 

YES,   that's  what  I    am — an   old  boy!    You 
fancy  these  three  short  words  carry  a  hu 
morous,  jovial  implication,   as  in  the  more 
vulgar  use  of  the  phrase?     Wait  until  the  iron  has 
entered  your  soul  that  pierces  mine.     Wait  until  you 
become — if  you  ever  do  become — an  old  boy. 

To  bear  upon  you  the  visible  marks  of  age,  the 
insignia  that  Time  has  noted  you  for  his  own,  as  a 
railway  conductor  sticks  a  check  in  your  hatband; 
to  look  old  or  at  least  aging  (alack!  with  what 
euphemism  we  would  fain  dulcify  or  unsting  or  at 
least  make  tolerable  the  harsh  truth!),  whilst  we 
still  wear  the  heart  of  youth  as  eager,  as  simple,  as 
untaught,  as  tremblingly  responsive  to  love  and  hope 
and  happiness  as  when  we  were  young  indeed 
.  .  .  ah!  that  is  a  sorrow  which  never  has  been 
rightly  told. 

People  say  of  an  Old  Boy,  "How  young  he 
looks  for  his  years!  Why,  bless  me,  he  must  be 
forty  or  forty-five."  They  will  even  say  this  to  your 
face,  meaning  that  you  shall  take  it  as  a  compli 
ment  !  You  dare  not  show  how  they  hurt  you  and, 
as  a  class,  the  Old  Boy  is  not  permitted  to  resent 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  369 

such  insults.  It  would  be  deemed  unpardonable  and 
would  disqualify  him  for  his  title  of  Old  Boy.  And 
nobody  sees  the  irony  of  it! 

Why  this  cursed,  itching  preoccupation  with  peo 
ple's  ages,  which  is  universal  in  society?  Is  there 
a  more  personal,  a  more  offensive  species  of  scan 
dal?  Why  are  we  so  damnably  concerned  to  know 
how  old  such  or  such  a  man  is?  (I  am  leaving 
women  out  of  the  question,  for  obvious  reasons.) 
This  coquetry  among  men  over  forty  is  as  ridicu 
lous  as  anything  that  may  be  alleged  of  the  weaker 
sex.  But  it  is,  besides,  a  harrowing  curiosity,  as  vul 
gar  as  it  is  disgusting  and  low-bred.  Hear  a  group 
of  men  talking  of  somebody  not  present  and  it's 
ten  to  one  the  first  question  out  of  the  box  will  be, 
"How  old  is  he?"  Nay,  I  have  met  men  for  the 
first  time  (they  were  neither  Scotchmen  nor  Jews) 
who  had  the  hardihood  to  address  the  query  to  me, 
after  a  very  brief  interchange  of  commonplaces. 
From  this  intolerable  impudence,  to  open  a  person's 
mouth  in  order  to  "size  up"  his  teeth,  and  ergo  his 
age,  as  you  would  that  of  a  horse,  is  but  a  slight 
step.  I  warn  these  gentry  that  there  is  one  Old  Boy 
with  whom  they  may  easily  carry  their  civilities  too 
far.  Let  them  have  a  care  I 

To  recur  to  the  more  tragical  part  of  my  situa 
tion.  I  early  resolved  to  set  my  face  against  the 
approaches  of  age,  owing  to  an  inborn  aversion  to 
gaffers,  grave-diggers  and  all  others  of  the  tribe  of 


370  ADVENTURES    IN 

Polonius.  The  pitying  tolerance,  mixed  with  con 
tempt,  extended  to  doddering  old  men,  has  always 
struck  me  as  the  saddest  sight  in  the  human  spec 
tacle.  Age  and  Death  are  the  great  tragedies  of 
the  human  lot,  and  I'm  not  sure  which  is  the  worst. 
As  I  have  said,  I  firmly  resolved  to  avoid  senility 
for  my  part,  and  so  in  process  of  time  I  became 
.  .  .  an  Old  Boy. 

An  imagination  beyond  the  ordinary,  the  keenest 
possible  zest  of  life,  a  mind  which  constantly  re 
newed  its  power  and  freshness  by  congenial  study  or 
original  effort,  and  a  heart  ever  seeking  to  love 
with  an  unsated  hunger  (I  sometimes  think  the  seat 
of  age  is  in  the  heart)  enabled  me  to  achieve  my 
purpose  in  a  marked  and  extraordinary  degree.  I 
did  not  become  nor  am  I  becoming  old,  in  the  usual 
degrading  sense  of  the  word  or  state.  I  shall  not 
tell  you  my  age  and  thereby  countenance  the  bar 
barous  vulgarity  which  I  have  rebuked  above.  But 
I  will  say  this: — I  meet  occasionally  men  of  thirty 
five  who,  in  respect  of  that  joyous  animation  which 
is  the  most  envied  privilege  of  youth — that  dew  of 
the  heart  (I  may  say)  which  I  have  never  suffered 
to  dry  up — that  freshness  of  the  mind  and  buoy 
ancy  of  spirit  which  I  have  so  jealously  watched 
over  and  preserved — seem  aged  in  comparison  with 
me. 

My  singularity  in  this  respect  serves  to  bring  me 
some    delicious    as    well    as    painful    experiences. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  371 

Lately,  for  instance  .  .  .  it  is  a  delicate  mat 
ter,  but  I  must  make  you  understand  ...  I 
was  thrown  into  company  with  a  charming  young 
girl.  Were  I  an  ordinary  man  I  should  say  that  she 
might  have  been  my  daughter.  Though  I  did  not 
intend  to  trifle  with  the  child,  my  cursed  indefeas 
ible  youth  had  an  instant  effect  upon  her.  Oh  the 
sweetness  and  the  peril  of  it!  What  would  I  not 
have  given  to  have  gone  back  into  the  Garden  of 
Youth  with  that  exquisite  girl?  Her  eyes  sought 
mine  with  indefinable  yearning;  her  lips  were  wist 
ful  with  unspoken  avowals ;  her  straying  hands  were 
constantly  meeting  mine  and  filling  me  with  a  de 
licious  terror.  "Ah,  if  you  were  but  older,"  I 
said,  awkwardly  aiming  to  show  her  the  folly  of  it. 
"Older!"  she  echoed,  with  a  pretty  frowning  per 
plexity,  "Why,  I  am  seventeen."  Seventeen! — good 
God!  .  .  . 

Perhaps  now  you  will  understand  why  I  ask  my 
self,  have  I  done  wisely,  after  all,  in  electing  to  be 
come  and  to  remain  what  the  world  so  hatefully 
calls  an  Old  Boy?  I  have  told  you  my  victory: 
here  is  my  defeat  and  the  bitter  in  my  cup. 

I  am  unfit  for  the  company  of  Age,  and  yet  I  may 
not  associate  overmuch  with  real  Youth,  on  account 
of  certain  indicia  of  time  (deceptive  in  my  case,  as 
you  know)  and  perhaps  too  because  of  the  felt  but 
unseen  barrier  between  those  of  widely  disparate 
years.  Also,  I  must  allow,  the  quite  young  some- 


372  ADVENTURES    IN 

times  bore  me  and  even  get  on  my  nerves — but  this, 
of  course,  is  not  in  me  an  effect  of  time.  So  I  am 
neither  of  the  first  nor  the  second  table.  I  abhor 
Age,  with  all  the  idiot  moralities  made  to  console  it, 
and  with  all  my  gift  to  please,  Youth  is  shy  of  me 
and  latterly,  I  begin  to  note,  yields  a  more  and  more 
reluctant  conquest.  I  have  declassed  myself  in  the 
lists  of  humanity  by  evading  the  common  lot.  I  am 
and  must  remain  until  the  end — God  help  me ! — an 
Old  Boy. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS  373 


M  ^\E4R  Heart,  I  know  the  day  will  come  when 
i  t  I  shall  smile  at  all  my  old  heartaches  and 
sorrows,  as  at  the  vain  griefs  of  a  petulant 
child.  When  I  shall  wonder  why  I  was  ever  angry 
or  injured  in  spirit,  or  believed  that  any  harm  could 
come  to  me,  save  through  myself.  When  I  shall 
hardly  understand  how  I  could  have  suffered  this 
one  to  vex  me  or  that  one  to  mortify  me,  and  shall 
weep  with  shame  that  I  returned  not  always  good 
for  evil.  When  I  shall  ask  tenderly  for  old  enemies 
and  shall  tell  them,  oh  so  eagerly!  that  our  quarrel 
was  all  a  mistake  and  I  alone  to  blame — 

But  when  that  hour  comes,  true  heart,  you  will 
have  a  pious  duty  to  perform  in  closing  my  weary 
eyes,  since  it  will  mean  for  me  the  end  of  the  Great 
Joke! 

Finito  Libro  sit  Laus  et  Gloria  Christo. 


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MARQ8  1920 
NOV  *  1920 

MIG  IS  1921 


AN  31  >923 
tB  2Q 


NOV  13  1925 


JAN  14  1966 


50m-7,'l( 


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